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1 

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U_  ("S;   288  -  5989  -  Foi. 


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THE  POOL  IN  THE  DESERT 


i 


-tr 


,4-^' 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  MDS.  COTES. 


Those  Derightful  Americans. 

A    Novel.       lamo.      Cloth,    $1.50. 
Thoutand, 


Eighth 


A  Social  Departure. 

How  Orthodocia  and  I  Went  Round  the 

'VORLD  BY  OUKSKLVES.  With  III  Ulustra- 
tions  by  F.  H.  TownseND.  umo.  Cloth, 
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Thousand, 

The  Simple" Adventures  of  a  Memsahlb. 

With  37  Illustrations  by  F.  H.  Townsend. 
limo.     Cloth,  tl.50.     Stjrlh  Thousand. 


D.   APPLETON   AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


JJ^'K^'.^» 


THE    POOL    IN    THE 
DESERT 


BV 


MRS.    EVEUAUn    COTES 

(SARA   JEANNETTE    DUNCAN) 


NEW    YORK 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

M  C  M  U  I 


CorTRiriirr,  1903,  bt 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

Alt  nghU  reterveti 


I'ubllHhcd  St iitimbiir,   t003 


^..2^ 


CONTENTS 


TlIK    Pool.    IN    THK   DrsKBT  .       .       ,       . 

A      oTHKR  IX  India 

An  I.mpossiblk  Iukai 

The  Hesitation  .  ■•  Miss  Andkkson 


PAGE 
.  1 

.  47 
.  115 
.  213 


THE    POOL    IN 
THE    DESERT 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 


I  KNEW  Anna  Chichele  and  Judy  Harbottle  so 
well,  and  they  figured  so  vividly  at  one  time  against 
the  rather  empty  landscape  of  life  in  a  frontier 
station,  that  my  affection  for  one  of  them  used  to 
seem  little  more,  or  less,  than  a  variant  upon  my 
affection  for  the  other.  That  recollection,  however, 
bears  examination  badly ;  Judy  was  much  the  better 
sort,  and  it  is  Judy's  part  in  it  that  draws  me  into 
telling  the  story.  Conveying  Judy  is  what  I  trem- 
ble at :  her  part  was  simple.  Looking  back— and 
not  so  very  far— her  part  has  the  rehef  of  high 
comedy  with  the  proximity  of  tears;  but  looking 
close,  I  find  that  it  is  mostly  Judy,  and  that  what 
she  did  is  entirely  second,  in  my  untarnished  pic- 
ture, to  what  she  was.  Still  I  do  not  think  I  can 
dissuade  myself  from  putting  it  down. 

They  would,  of  course,  inevitably  have  found 
each  other  sooner  or  later,  Mrs.  Harbottle  and 
Mrs.  Chichele,  but  it  was  I  who  actually  introduced 
them;  my  palmy  veranda  in  Rawul  Pindi,  where 
the  tea-cups  used  to  assemble,  was  the  scene  of  it. 
I  presided  behind  my  samovar  over  the  early  for- 
malities that  were  almost  at  once  to  drop  from 

a 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

their  friendship,  like  the  sheath  of  some  bursting 
flower.     I  deliberately  brought  thein  together,  so 
the  birth  was  not  accidental,  and  my  interest  in  it 
quite  legitimately  maternal.     We  always  had  tea 
in  the  veranda  in  Rawul  Pindi,  the  drawing-room 
was  painted  blue,  blue  for  thirty   feet  up  to  the 
whitewashed  cotton  ceiling;  notliing  of  any  value 
in  the  way  of  a  human  relation,  I  am  sure,  rouid 
have  originated  there.     The  veranda  was  spacious 
and  open,  their  mutus!  obsen'ation  had  room  and 
freedom ;  I  watched  it  to  and  fro.    I  had  not  long 
to  wait  for  my  reward ;  the  beautiful  candor  I  ex- 
pected between  them  was  not  ten  minutes  in  coming. 
For  the  sake  of  it  I  had  taken  some  trouble,  but 
when  I  perceived  it  revealing  I  went  and  sat  down 
beside    Judy's    husband,    Robert    Harbottle,    and 
talked  about  Pharaoh's  split  hoof.     It  was  only 
fair;  and  when  next  day  I  got  their  impressions 
of  one  another,  I  felt  single-minded  and  deserving. 
I  know  it  would  be  a  satisf.-ictory  sort  of  thing 
to  do,  but  perhaps  it  was  rather  more  for  Judy's 
sake  than  for  Anna's  that  I  did  it.     Mrs.  Il.uboltle 
was  only  twenty-seven  tlicn     nd  Robert  a  major, 
but  he  bad  brought  her  to  Imlia  out  of  an  episode 
too  color-flushed  to  tone  with  English  hedges ;  their 
marriage  had  come,  in  short,  of  his  divorce,  and 
as  too  natural  a  consequence.     In  India  it  is  well 
known  tl.   '.  the  eye  becomes  accustomed  to  primi- 
tive pigments  and  high  lights;  the  esthetic  eon- 
4 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 


sidcration,  if  nothing  else,  demanded  Robert's  ex- 
change. He  was  lucky  to  get  a  Pilfer  •  regiment, 
and  the  Twelfth  were  lucky  to  get  him ;  we  were 
all  lucky,  I  thought,  to  get  Judy.  It  was  an 
opinion,  of  course,  a  good  deal  challenged,  even 
in  Rawul  Pindi,  where  it  was  thought,  especially 
in  the  beginning,  that  acquiescence  was  the  most 
the  Harbottles  could  hope  for.  That  is  not  enough 
in  India;  cordiality  is  the  common  right.  I  could 
not  have  Judy  preserving  her  atmosphere  at  our 
tea-parties  and  gymkhanas.  Not  that  there  were 
two  minds  among  us  about  "the  case";  it  was  a 
preposterous  case,  sentimentally  undignified,  from 
some  points  of  view  deplorable.  I  chose  to  reserve 
my  point  of  view,  from  which  I  saw  it,  on  Judy's 
behalf,  merely  quixotic,  preferring  on  Robert's  just 
to  close  my  eyes.  There  is  no  doubt  that  his  first 
wife  was  odious  to  a  degree  which  it  is  simply 
plcasanter  not  to  recount,  but  her  malignity  must 
almost  have  amounted  to  a  sense  of  humor.  Her 
detestation  of  her  cousin  Judy  Thynnc  dated  much 
furtlicr  back  than  Robert's  attachment.  That  be- 
gan in  Paris,  where  Judy,  a  young  widow,  was 
developing  a  real  vein  at  Julian's.  I  am  entirely 
convinced  that  there  was  nothing,  people  say, 
"in  it,"  Judy  had  not  a  thought  at  tuat  time  that 
was  not  based  on  Chinese  white  and  permeated  with 
good-fellowship;  but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  it, 
*  Punjab  Frontier  Force. 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

and  no  doubt  the  turgid  imagination  .f  the  first 
.  r.  Harbottle  dealt  .ith  it  honestly  enough.  A 
a  1  events  she  saw  her  opportunity,  „nd  the  depths 
of  her  indifference  to  Robert  bubbled  up  venom- 
ously into  the  suit.  That  it  was  ur.defended  Z 
the  senseless  n.ystery;  decency  orda.ned  that  he 
and  Judy  should  have  made  a  fight,  even  in  the 

ft TVM  ?"''* '"' "  '°^''"«  °--  '^''-  --on 

•t  had  to  be  a  losmg  on.^  ihe  reason  so  inmensely 
cnt.c^ed-wa.s  that  the  petitioning  lady  obstinate- 
defused  to  brmg  her  action  against  any  other 
set  of  Circumstances  than  those  to  which,  I  have 
no  doubt,  Judy  contributed  every  indiscretion.  It 
IS  hard  to  imagine  Robert  Harbottle  refusing  her 
any  sort  of  justification  that  the  law  demands  short 

iLlTZ  w',  '"* ''"  ■""''™  "■""''^  "-^-pt  -«'- 

ng  of  which    he  account  did  not  go  for  final  set- 

tWtoJudyThynne.     If  her  husband  wanted 
his  liberty,  he  .1,     .d  ,„„.,  .-j,  ,,,^,  ^^^  ^^^ 

friend,  Mrs.  Thynnc,  had,  one  can  only  say,  th! 
n^ost  vivid  conmiiseration  for  his  bondage.  Wl,„t- 
ever  chance  they  had  of  winning,  to  wiit  would  be, 
for  the  end  they  had  at  heart,  to  lose,  so  thev  sim- 

dete  table  procedure  which  terminated  in  the  rule 

absolute.    I  have  often  wondered  whether  the  whole 

business  would  not  have  been  more  defensible  if 

6 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

there  had  been  on  Judy's  part  any  emotional  spring 
for  the  leap  they  nmde.  I  ofFer  my  conviction 
that  there  was  none,  that  she  was  only  extrava- 
gantly affected  by  the  ideals  of  the  Quarter— it 
IS  a  transporting  atmosphere— and  held  a  view  of 
comradeship  which  permitted  the  reversal  of  the 
modern  situation  filled  by  a  blameless  corespond- 
ent. Kobert,  of  course,  was  tremendously  in  love 
with  her;  but  my  theory  is  that  she  married  him 
as  tlie  logical  outcome  of  her  sacrifice  and  by  no 
means  the  smallest  part  of  it. 

It  was  all  quite  unimaginable,  as  so  many  things 
are,  but  the  upshot  of  it  brought  Judy  to  Rawul 
Pmdi,  as  I  have  said,  where  I  for  one  thought  her 
mistake  insignificant  comjared  with  her  value.  It 
would  have  been  groat,  her  value,  anywhere;  in 
tlic  middle  of  the  Punjab  it  was  incalculable.  To 
explain  why  would  be  to  explain  British  India, 
but  I  hope  it  will  appear;  and  I  am  quite  willing, 
remember,  to  take  the  responr  ility  if  it  does 
not. 

Soiners  Chichclc,  Anna's  son,  it  is  absurd  to 
think,  must  have  been  about  fifteen  then,  reflecting 
at  Winchester  with  the  other  "men"  upon  the  com- 
parative merits  of  tinned  sardines  and  jam  roll, 
and  whether  a  packet  of  real  Egyptians  was  not 
worth  the  sacrifice  of  either.  His  father  was  colo- 
nel of  the  Twelfth;  his  mother  was  .till  charming. 
It  was  the  year  before  Dick  Fo-oyth  came  down 
7 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

from   the   neighborhood  of   Slieikh-budin   with   a 
brevet  and  a  good  deal  of  personal  damat,'e.    I  men- 
tion him  because  he  proved  Anna's  charm  in  the 
only  conclusive  way  before  the  eyes  of  us  all ;  and 
the  station,  I  remember,  was  edifled  to  observe  that 
if  Mrs.  Chichele  came  out  of  the  matter  "straight" 
— one  relapses  so  easily  into  the  simple  definitions  of 
those  parts — which  she  undoubtrdly  did,  she  owed 
it  in  no  small  degree  to  Judy  Harbottle.    This  one 
feels  to  be  hardly  a  legitimate  reference,  but  it  is 
something  tangible  to  lay  hold  upon  in  trying  to  de- 
scribe the  web  of  volitions  which  began  to  weave  it- 
self between  the  two  that  afternoon  on  my  veranda 
and  which  afterward  became  so  strong  a  bond.     I 
was  delighted  with  the  thing;   its  simplicity  and 
s.iicerity  stood  out  among  our  conventional  little 
compromises  at  friendship  like  an  ideal.     She  and 
Judy  bad  the  assurance  of  one  another;  they  made 
upon  one  another  the  finest  and  often  the  most  un- 
conscionable demands.     One  met  them  walking  at 
odd  hours  in  queer  places,  of  which  I  imagine  they 
were  not  much  aware.     They  would  turn  deliber- 
ately off  the  Maidan  and  away  from  the  band-stand 
to  be  rid  of  our  irrelevant  bows;  they  did  their 
duty  by  the  rest  of  us,  but  the  most  egregious 
among  us,  the  Deputy-Commissioner  for  selection, 
could   see   that  he  hardly  counted.      I  thought   I 
understood,  but  that  may  have  been  my  fatuity; 
certainly  when  their  husbands  inquired  what  on 
8 


THE    POOL    IX    THE    DESEUT 

earth  they  had  been  talking  of,  it  usually  trans- 
pired thnt  they  had  found  an  infinite  amount  to 
say  about  nothing.  It  was  a  little  worrying  to 
hear  Colonel  Chiclielc  and  Major  Harbottle  de- 
scribe their  wives  as  "pals,"  but  the  fact  could  not 
be  denied,  and  after  all  we  were  in  the  Punjab. 
They  were  pals  too,  but  the  tcmis  were  different. 
People  discussed  it  according  to  their  lights,  and 
girls  said  in  pretty  wonderment  that  Mrs.  Harbot- 
tle and  Mrs.  Chichclc  were  like  men,  they  never 
kissed  each  other.  I  think  Judy  prescribed  these 
conditions.  Anna  was  far  more  a  person  who  did 
OS  the  world  told  her.  But  it  was  a  poor  negation 
to  describe  all  that  they  never  did;  there  was  no 
common  little  convention  of  attachment  that  did 
not  seem  to  be  tacitly  omitted  between  them.  I 
hope  one  did  not  too  cynically  observe  that  they 
offered  these  to  their  husbands  instead ;  the  redeem- 
ing observation  was  their  husbands'  complete  satis- 
faction. This  they  maintained  to  the  end.  In  the 
natural  order  of  things  Robert  harbottle  should 
have  paid  heavily  for  interfering  as  he  did  in  Paris 
between  a  woman  and  wliat  she  was  entitled  to  live 
for.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  never  paid  anything 
at  all;  I  doubt  whether  he  ever  knew  himself  a 
debtor.  Judy  kept  her  temperament  under  like  a 
current  and  swam  with  the  tides  of  the  surface, 
taking  refreshing  dips  only  now  and  then  which 
one  traced  in  her  eyes  and  her  hair  when  she  and 
9 


THE    POOL    IN    TIIK    DESERT 

Hubert  ciimu  bnck  from  Icnvc.  That  sort  of  thing 
is  lost  in  the  snnds  of  India,  but  it  ninkcs  an  oasis 
us  it  travels,  and  it  sometimes  seemed  ti>  .n  a,  curi- 
ous pity  that  she  nnd  Anna  should  sit  in  the  shade 
of  it  together,  while  Kobert  and  Peter  Chiclicle, 
their  titular  companions,  blundered  on  in  the  des- 
ert. But  after  all,  if  you  are  born  blind — and  the 
men  were  both  immensely  liked,  and  the  shooting 
was  good. 

Ten  years  later  Somcrs  joined.  The  Twelftli 
were  at  Pcshawur.  Robert  Ilarbottlc  was  Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel by  that  time  and  had  the  regiment. 
Distinction  had  incrusteil,  in  the  Indian  way,  upon 
Peter  Chichelc,  its  former  colonel;  he  was  General 
Commanding  the  District  and  K.C.B.  So  we  were 
all  still  together  in  Pcshawur.  It  was  great  luck 
for  the  Chicheles,  Sir  Peter's  having  the  district, 
though  his  father's  old  regiment  would  have  made 
it  pleasant  enough  for  the  boy  in  any  case.  He 
came  to  us,  I  mean,  of  course,  to  two  or  three  of 
us,  with  the  interest  that  hangs  about  a  victim  of 
circumstances;  we  understood  that  he  wasn't  a 
"born  soldier."  Anna  had  told  me  on  the  contrary 
that  be  was  a  sacrifice  to  family  tradition  made 
inevitable  by  the  General's  unfortunate  invest- 
ments. Bellona's  bridegroom  was  not  a  role  he 
fancied,  though  he  would  make  a  kind  of  compro- 
mise as  best  man ;  he  would  agree,  she  said,  to  be 
u  war  correspondent  and  write  picturesque  sj)ecial8 
10 


fWrffr,, 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

for  the  London  l.nlfpcnny  prcM.     There  v«,  th, 
hunmr  of  the  poor  b„/,  despair  in  it.  but  »l,e  con- 
vejed  .t  I  rerne„,bcr,  in  exaetly  the  .an,e  ton.  with 
«h.eh  .he  hml  «uid   to  n,e  ^ear,  before  that  he 
wanted    o  dnve  a  nnlk-eart.     She  ..-arried  quite  her 
Imlf  of  tl>e  fannly  tradition,  thc.gh  she  could  talk 
of  .aerifiee  an.i  n>ake  her  e^es  wstful,  contemplat- 
...g  for  feomer,  the  lin>itatio"s  of  the  drill-book  and 
the  camp  of  exercise,  proclaiming  and   insistinir 
..I)on  what  she  would  have  done  if  she  could  only 
have  chosen  for  hi„,.     Anna  Chichelc  ,aw  things 
tha    way.     With  nmre  than  a  passable  sense  of  all 
that  was  involved,  if  she  could  have  made  her  son 
«n  artist  in  life  or  n  con.mander-in-chicf,  if  she 
.ould  have  given  him  the  sering  eye  or  the  Order 
of  the  Star  of  India,  sho  wo.Jd  not  have  hesitated 
for  an  mstant.     Judy,  with  1  er  single  mind,  cried 
out,  almost  at  sight  of  hin,,  upon  them  both,  I 
■"can  both  Anna  and  Sir  Peter.     Not  that  the  boy 
earned  his  condemnation  badly,  or  even  obviously; 
I  venture  that  no  one  noticci  it  in  the  mess;  but 
.t  was  naturally  plain  to  those  of  us  who  were  un- 
der the  same.     He  had  put  in  his  tw .  years  with 
a   Bnt,.sh   regiment   at   Mcerut-they   nurse   sub- 
alterns    hat  way   for  the  Indian  army_„„d   his 
eyes  no  longer  played  with  the  tinsel  vision  of  In- 
dia,- they  looked  instead  into  the  arid  stretch  be- 
jond.     This  preoccupation  conveyed  to  the  Sur- 
geon-Major's wife  the  suggestion  that  Mr.   Chi- 
'  11 


j 


THE  POOL  IN  THE  DESEKT 
chclc  wtti  the  victim  of  a  hopcIe»«  ftttnclimcnt. 
Mrs.  Httrbottlc  made  no  such  mislukc;  nhc  »iiw 
simply,  I  iiiiftKine,  the  b.ginninK«  of  her  own  hun- 
ger and  thir«.  in  him,  locikinf?  back  as  she  told  iw 
across  a  decade  of  dusty  sunsets  to  remember  tlicm. 
Tlic  decade  was  there,  close  to  the  memory  of  a\\ 
of  us;  wc  put,  from  Judy  herself  downward,  an 
absurd  omount  of  confidence  in  it. 

She  looked  so  well  the  night  she  met  him.  It 
was  Knglish  mail  day ;  she  d.  pended  a  great  deal 
upon  her  letters,  and  I  suppose  somebody  had  writ- 
ten her  a  word  thot  brought  her  that  Imppy,  still 
excitement  that  is  the  inner  mystery  cT  words.  He 
went  straight  to  her  with  Sv.  .ic  speech  about  his 
mother  having  given  him  leave,  ond  for  twenty 
minutes  she  patronized  him  on  a  sofa  as  his  mother 
would  not  have  dreamed  of  doing. 

Anna  Chichclc,  from  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
smiled  on  the  pair. 

"1  depend  on  you  and  Judy  to  be  good  to  him 
while  wc  arc  away,"  she  said.  She  and  Sir  Peter 
were  going  on  leave  at  the  end  of  the  week  to  Scot- 
land, as  usual,  for  the  shooting. 

Following  her  glance  I  felt  incapable  of  the 
proportion  she  assigned  nic.  "I  will  sec  after  l.ls 
socks  with  pleasure,"  I  lid.  "I  think,  don't  you, 
we  may  leave  the  rest  to  Judy?" 

Her  eyes  remained  upon  the  boy.  and  1  saw  the 
passion  rise  in  them,  at  which  I  turned  mine  clse- 
12 


THE   POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

where.     Who  rnn  look  unpcrturlxd  upon  such  « 
privacy  of  nntiire  aa  that? 

'Toor  old  Ju,|y!"  she  went  on.  "She  never 
ioiilcl  be  bothered  with  him  in  all  his  de„r  liobble- 
•  •tho>'  time;  she  resented  bis  cliilms,  the  unreason- 
able creoture,  used  to  limit  me  to  three  anecdotes 
a  week ;  and  now  she  has  him  on  her  hands,  if  you 
like.  Sec  the  pretty  air  of  deference  in  the  way 
he  listens  to  her!  IK-  has  nice  manners,  the  villain, 
if  he  is  a  Cbiehele !" 

"Ob,  y.u  bavc  improved  Sir  Peter's,"  I  said 
kindly. 

"I  do  hope  Judy  will  think  him  worth  while. 
I  can't  quite  expect  that  he  will  be  up  to  her,  bless 
him,  she  is  so  much  cleverer,  isn't  she,  than  any  of 
us?  But  if  she  will  just  be  herself  with  him  it 
will  make  fuch  a  difference." 

The  other  two  crossed  the  room  to  us  at  that, 
and  Judy  gaily  .  ade  Somers  over  to  his  mother, 
trailing  off  to  find  Roliert  in  tlio  billiard-roon  . 

"Well,  wh^t  has  Mrs.  Harbottlc  been  telling 
you?"  Anna  asked  him. 

The  young  man's  eye  followed  Judy,  his  hand 
went  musingly  to  his  mustache. 

"She  was  telling  me,"  he  said,  "that  people  in 
India  were  sepulchers  of  themselves,  but  that  now 
and  then  one  came  who  could  roll  awaj  another's 
stone." 

"It  sounds  promising,"  said  Lady  Chichele  to  me. 
13 


3 

i 


.'  ^  rma^  .u 


"-■•,!aFa-*-7L;- 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DES"   RT 

"It  sounds  cryptic,"  I  laughed  to  Somcrs,  but 
I  saw  that  he  had  the  key. 

I  can  not  say  that  I  attended  diligently  to  Mr. 
Chichele's  socks,  but  the  part  corresponding  was 
freely  assigned  mc.    After  his  people  went  I  saw 
him  often.     He  pretended  to  find  qualities  in  my 
tea,  implied  that  he  found  them  in  my  talk.     As 
a  matter  of  fact  it  was  my  inquiring  attitude  that 
he  loved,  the  knowledge  that  there  was  no  detail 
that  he  could  give  me  about  himself,  his  impres- 
sions  and   experiences,   that   was   unlikely   to  in- 
terest mc.     I  would  not  for  the  world  imply  that 
he  was  egotistical  or  complacent,  absolutely  the 
reverse,  but  he  possessed  an  articulate  soul  which 
found  its  happiness  in  expression,  and  I  liked  to 
listen.     I  feel  that  these  arc  complicated  words  to 
explain  a  very  simple  relation,  and  I  pause  to 
wonder  what  is  left  to  me  if  I  wished  to  describe 
his  commerce  with  Mrs.  Harbottle.    Luckily  there 
is  an  alternative;  one  needn't  do  it.     I  wifl;  I  had 
somewhere  on  paper  Judy's  own  account  of  it  at 
this  period,  however.    It  is  a  thing  she  would  have 
enjoyed  writing  and  more  enjoyed  communicating, 
at  this  period. 

There  was  a  grave  reticenco  in  his  talk  about  her 
which  amused  me  in  the  beginning.  Mrs.  Harbot- 
tle had  been  for  ten  years  important  enough  to  us 
all,  but  her  serious  significance,  the  light  and  the 
beauty  in  her,  had  plainly  been  reserved  for  the 
11 


I 


THE   POOL   IN    TIIK   DESERT 
dWerj.  of  this  sensitive  and  intelligent  person 
not  very  long  from  Sandhurst  and  cxaftly  tweTtv- 
si..    I  .as  barely  allowed  a  familiar  referenlan"! 
anyth.ng  approaching  a  flippa„ey  was  Tt  w" 
peneratmg  silence.      I   was   almost  rebuked 
light  ysuggestmg  that  she  must  occasionally  find 
herself  bored  in  Peshawur.  ^ 

"aZ     h"^';*,*   '^"y"'^"'''"  ^"id    Mr.    Chichele; 

sound  ff "  "  ''  °""  °^  "'^   f"^   P^OP'^  «ho 

sound  the  privilege  of  living." 

This  to  me,  who  had  counted  Jlrs.  Ilarbottle's 

yawns  on  so  many  occasions!    It  became  presently 

■cessary  to  be  careful,  tactful,  i„  one's  impW 

ions  about  Mrs.  Harbottle,  and  to  recognize  a^r- 

tain  distinction  in  the  fact  that  one  wts  the  only 

person  with  whom  Mr.  Chichele  discussed  her  II 

The  day  came  when  we  talked  of  Robert;  it  was 

"ng  and  affectionate  colloquy  which  had  his  wife 
for  inspiration.  I  was  familiar,  of  course,  with 
Somcrs's  opinion  that  the  Colonel  was  an  a;fu  1 

and  become  understood  as  the.  base  of  all  refer- 
ences     And   I  liked  Robert   Harbottle  very   well 
■nyself.      When   his   adj.itant   called   him   7  b 
leader  of  men,  however,    '  Mt  compelled  to  look 
at  the  statement  consideringly. 

"In  a  tight  place,"  I  saFd-dear  me,  what  ex- 
15 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

prcssions  hnd  the  freedom  of  our  little  frontier 
drawing-rooms! — "I  would  as  soon  depend  on  him 
as  on  anybody.     But  as  for  leadership " 

"He  is  such  a  good  fellow  that  nobody  hero  does 
justice  to  his  soldierly  qualities,"  said  Mr.  Chichele, 
"except  IMrs.  Harbottlc." 

"Has  she  been  telling  you  about  them?"  T  in- 
quired. 

"Well,"  he  hesitated,  "she  told  me  about  the 
MuUa  Nulla  affair.  She  is  rather  proud  of  that. 
Any  woman  would  be." 

"Poor  dear  Judy !"  I  mused. 

Somers  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  me,  remov- 
ing his  cigarette,  as  if  my  words  would  be  the 
better  of  explanation. 

"She  has  taken  refuge  in  them — in  Bob  Har- 
bottle's  soldierly  qualities — ever  since  she  married 
him,"  I  continued. 

"Taken  refuge,"  he  repeated,  coldly,  but  at  my 
uncompromising  glance  his  eyes  fell. 

"Well?"  I  said. 

"You  mean " 

"Oh,  I  mean  what  I  say,"  I  laughed.  "Your 
cigarette  has  gone  out — have  another." 

"I  think  her  devotion  to  him  splendid." 

"Quite  splendid.     Have  you  seen  the  things  he 

brought  her  from  the  Simla  Art  Exhibition?    He 

said  they  were  nice  bits  of  color,  and  she  has  hung 

them  in  the  drawing-room,  where  she  will  have  to 

1(5 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

look  at  them  every  day.    Let  us  admire  her— dear 
Judy." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  with  a  fine  air  of  detachment,  "do 
you  tliink  they  are  so  necessary,  those  agreements?" 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "we  see  that  they  are  not  in- 
dispensable. More  sugar?  I  have  only  given  you 
one  lump.  And  we  know,  at  all  events,"  I  added, 
unguardedly,  "that  she  could  never  have  had  an 
illusion  about  him." 

The  young  man  looked  up  quickly.  "Is  that 
story  true?"  he  asked. 

"There  was  a  story,  but  most  of  us  have  forgot- 
ten it.     Who  told  you?" 

"The  doctor." 

"The  Surgeon-Major,"  I  said,  "has  an  accurate 
memory  and  a  sense  of  proportion.  As  I  suppose 
you  were  hour,!  to  get  it  from  somebody,  I  am 
glad  you  got  it  from  him." 

I  was  not  prepared  to  go  on,  and  saw  with  some 
relief  that  Somers  was  not  either.  His  silence,  as 
he  smoked,  seemed  to  me  deliberate;  and  I  had 
oddly  enough  at  this  moment  for  the  first  time  the 
impression  that  he  was  a  man  and  not  a  boy.  Then 
the  Harbottlcs  themselves  joined  us,  very  cheery 
after  a  gallop  from  the  Wazir-Bagh.  We  talked 
of  old  times,  old  friendships,  good  swords  tlint  were 
broken,  names  that  had  carried  far,  and  Somers 
effaced  himself  in  the  perfect  manner  of  the  Brit- 
ish subaltern.  It  was  a  long,  pleasant  gossip,  and 
17 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

I  thought  Judy  seemed  rather  glad  to  let  her  hus- 
band ('.ictate  its  level,  which,  of  course,  he  did.  I 
noticci  when  the  three  rode  away  together  that 
the  Colonel  was  beginning  to  sit  down  rather  solid- 
ly on  his  big  New  Zealander;  and  I  watched  the 
dusk  come  over  from  the  foot-hills  for  a  long  time 
thinking  more  kindly  than  I  had  spoken  of  Robert 
HarboLti-;. 

I  have  often  wondered  how  far  happiness  is  con- 
tribntcd  to  a  temperament  •;.  ;  Judy  Harbottle's, 
and  how  far  it  creates  its  own  ;  but  I  doubt  whether, 
on  either  count,  she  found  as  much  in  any  other 
winter  of  her  life  except  perhaps  the  remote  ones 
by  the  Seine.     Tliose  ardent  hours  of  hers,  when 
everything  she  said  was  touched  with  the  flame  of 
her    individuality,    camo    oftener;    she    suddenly 
cleaned  up  her  pa'ette  and  b.gan  to  translate  in 
one  study  after  another  the  language  of  the  fron- 
tier country,  that  spoke  only  in  stones  and  in  shad- 
ows under  the  stones  and  in  sunlight  over  them. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  Academy  of  tiiis  year,  at 
all  events,  that  I  would  exchange  for  the  one  she 
gave  me.      She  lived  her  physical  life  at  a  pace 
which  carried  us  all  along  with  her;  she  hunted  and 
drove  and  danced  and  dined  with  such  sn  cere  in- 
tention as  convinced   us  all  that  in  hunting    md 
driving  and  dancing  and  dining  there  were  satis- 
factions that  had  been  somehow  overlooked.     The 
Surgeon-Major's   wife   said   it  was  delightful   to 
18 


THE    POOL   IN    THE    DESERT 
meet  Mr,.  Harbottle,  she  seemed  to  enjoy  every- 
lung  so  thoroughly ;  the  Surgeon-Major  looked  ac 

she  hadn't  a  „,ght  temperature.  He  was  a  Scotch- 
wan.  One  n,ght  Colonel  Harbottle,  hearing  her 
give  away  the  last  extra,  charged  her  with  renew- 
ing her  youth. 

"No,  Bob,"  she  said,  "only  imitating  it." 
Ah,  that  question  of  her  youth.  It  was  so  near 
lier-still,  she  told  mc  once,  she  heard  the  beat  of 
>ts  fly,ng,  and  the  pulse  in  her  veins  answered  the 
false  s,gnal.  That  was  afterward,  when  she  told 
the  truth.  She  was  not  so  happy  when  she  in- 
dulged herself  otherwise.  As  when  she  asked  one 
to  remember  that  she  was  a  middle-aged  woman. 
».th  middle-aged  thoughts  and  satisfactions. 

I  am  now  really  happiest,"  she  declared,  "when 
the  Commissioner  takes  me  in  to  dinner,  when  the 
General  Commanding  leads  me  to  the  dance  » 

T   ^i""  '^^u^"  ^'*  *°  """^^  "  ""  ''""^^t  conviction. 
1  offered  her  a  recent  success  not  crowned  by  the 
Academy,  and  she  put  it  down  on  the  table.    "Bv 
and  by,"  she  said.     "At  present  I  am  reading 
Pascal  and  Bossuet."    Well,  she  was  reading  Pas 
cal  ana  Bossuet.     She  grieved  aloud  that  most  of 
our  activities  in  India  were  so  indomitably  youth- 
lul,  o«mg  to  tlie  accident  that  most  of  us  were 
always  so  young.     "There  is  no  dignified  distrac- 
tion in  this  country,"  she  complained,  "for  respect- 
19 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

able  ladies  ncaring  forty."  She  seemed  to  like 
to  make  these  declarations  in  the  presence  of  Somers 
Chioholc,  who  would  look  at  her  with  a  little  queer 
smile-  a  bad  translation,  I  imagine,  of  what  he 
felt. 

She  gave  herself  so  generously  to  her  seniors 
that  somebody  said  Mrs.  Harbottle's  girdle  was 
hung  with  brass  hats.  It  seems  flippant  to  add 
that  her  complexion  was  as  honest  as  the  day,  but 
the  fact  is  that  the  year  before  Judy  had  felt 
compelled,  like  the  rest  of  us,  to  repair  just  a 
little  the  ravages  of  the  climate.  If  she  hud  never 
done  it  one  would  not  have  looked  twice  at  the  ab- 
surdity when  she  said  of  the  powder-pufF  in  the 
dressing-room,  "I  have  raised  that  thing  to  the 
level  of  an  immorality,"  and  sailed  in  to  dance 
with  an  uncompromising  expression  and  a  face  un- 
compromiscd.  1  have  not  spoken  of  her  beauty ; 
for  one  thing  it  was  not  always  there,  and  there 
were  people  who  would  deny  it  altogether,  or  whose 
considered  con)  nent  was,  "I  wouldn't  call  her 
plain."  They,  of  course,  were  people  in  whom  she 
declined  to  be  interested,  but  even  for  those  of  us 
who  could  evoke  some  demonstration  of  her  vivid 
self  her  face  would  not  always  light  m  correspond- 
ence. When  it  did  there  was  none  that  I  liked 
better  to  look  at;  and  I  envied  Somers  Chichele 
his  way  to  make  it  the  pale,  shining  thing  that 
would  hold  him  lifted,  in  return,  for  hours  to- 
80 


TH  i    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

gether,  with  I  know  not  what  mystic  power  of  a 
moon  upon  the  tide.     And  he?     Oh,  he  was  dark 
and  dchcate,  by  nature  simple,  sincere,  delightfully 
intelligent.     His  common  title  to  charm  was  the 
rather  sweet  seriousness  that  rested  on  his  upper 
hp,  and  a  certain  winning  gratification  in  his  at- 
tention ;  but  he  had  a  subtler  one  in  his  eyes,  which 
must  be  always  seeking  and  smiling  over  what  they 
found;  those  eyes  of  perpetual  inquiry  for  the  ex- 
quisite which  ask  so  little  help  to  create  it.    A  per- 
sonality to  button  up  in  a  uniform,  good  heavens! 
As  I  begin  to  think  of  them  together  I  remem- 
ber liow  the  maternal  note  appeared  in  her  talk 
about  him. 

_    "His  youth  is  pathetic,"  she  told  me,  "but  there 
is  nothing  that  he  docs  not  understand." 

"Don't  apologize,  Judy,"  I  said.  We  were  so 
brusque  on  the  frontier.  Besides,  the  matter  still 
suffered  a  jocular  presentment.  Mrs.  Harbottle 
and  Mr.  Chichele  were  still  "great  friends";  we 
could  still  put  them  next  each  other  at  our  dinner- 
parties without  the  feeling  that  it  would  be 
"marked."  There  was  still  nothing  unusual  in  the 
fact  that  when  Mrs.  Harbottle  was  there  Mr  Chi- 
chele might  be  taken  for  granted.  We  were  so 
broad-minded  also,  on  the  frontier. 

It  grew  more  obvious,  the  maternal  note.     I  be- 
gan positively  to  dread  it,  almost  as  much,  I  imag- 
ine, as  Somers  did.     She  took  her  privileges  all  in 
21 


THE   POOL   IN    THE   DESERT 

Anna's  name,  slic  exercised  her  ttutliority  quite  as 
Lady  Chichclc's  proxy.  She  went  to  the  very 
limit.  "Anna  Chichele,"  slie  said  actually  in  his 
presence,  "is  a  fortunate  woman.  She  has  all  kinds 
of  cleverness,  and  she  has  her  tall  son.  I  have 
only  one  little  talent,  and  I  have  no  tall  son." 
Now  it  was  not  in  nature  that  she  could  have  had 
a  son  as  tall  as  Somcrs,  nor  was  tliat  desire  in  her 
eyes.  All  civilization  implies  a  good  deal  of  farce, 
but  this  was  a  poor  refuge,  a  cheap  device ;  I  was 
glad  when  it  fell  oway  from  her  sincerity,  when 
the  day  came  on  which  she  looked  into  my  fire  and 
said  simply,  "  Vn  attachment  like  ours  has  no 
terms." 

"I  wonder,"  I  said. 

"For  what  conies  and  goes,"  she  went  on  drcn.n- 
ily,  "how  could  there  be  a  formula?" 

"Look  here,  Judy,"  I  said,  "you  know  me  very 
well.    What  if  tlie  flesh  leaps  with  the  spirit?" 

She  looked  at  me,  very  white.    "Oh  no,"  she  said, 

"no." 

I  waited,  but  there  seemed  nothing  more  that 
she  could  say ;  and  in  the  silence  the  futile  nega- 
tive seemed  to  wander  round  the  room  repeating 
itself  like  an  echo,  "O'l  no,  no."  I  poked  the  fire 
presently  to  drown  the  sound  of  it.  Judy  sut  still, 
with  her  feet  crossed  and  her  hands  thrust  into  the 
pockets  of  her  coat,  staring  into  the  coals. 

"Can  you  live  independently,  satisfied  with  your 
22 


THE   POOL   IN   THE   DESERT 


interests  and  occupations?"  she  demanded  at  last. 
"Yes,  I  krow  you  can.  I  can't.  I  must  exist  more 
than  half  in  other  people.  It  is  what  they  think 
and  feel  that  matters  to  me,  just  as  much  as  what 
I  think  and  feel.  The  best  of  life  is  in  that  com- 
munication." 

"It  has  always  been  a  passion  with  you,  Judy," 
I  replied.  "I  can  imn  .-ine  how  much  you  must 
miss " 

"Whom?" 

"Anna  Chichele,"  I  said  softly. 

She  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room,  fixing 
liurc  and  tlierc  an  intent  regard  upon  things  which 
she  did  not  sec.  "Oh,  I  do,"  she  said  at  one  point, 
with  the  effect  of  pulling  herself  together.  She 
took  onother  turn  or  two,  ond  then  finding  herself 
near  the  door  she  went  out.  I  felt  as  profoundly 
humiliated  for  her  as  if  she  had  staggered. 

The  next  night  was  one  of  those  that  stand  out 
so  vividlv,  for  no  reason  that  one  can  identify,  in 
one's  memory.  We  were  dining  with  the  Har- 
bottles,  a  small  party,  for  a  tourist  they  had  with 
them.  ludy  and  I  and  Somers  and  the  traveler 
had  drifted  out  into  the  veranda,  where  the  scent 
of  Japanese  lilies  came  and  went  on  the  spring 
wind  to  trouble  the  souls  of  any  taken  unawares. 
There  was  a  brightness  beyond  the  foot-hills  where 
the  moon  was  coming,  and  I  remember  how  one 
tall  clamp  s^^ayed  out  against  it,  and  seemed  in 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

passionate  perfume  to  lay  a  burden  on  tlic  breast. 
Judy  moved  awuy  from  it  and  sat  clasping  her 
knees  on  tlic  ed^c  of  the  veranda.  Somers,  when 
his  eyes  were  not  ujmn  her,  looked  always  at  the 
lily. 

I'-ven  the  spirit  of  the  globe-trotter  was  stirred, 
and  he  said,  "I  think  you  Anglo-Indiai..,  live  in  a 
kind  of  little  paradise." 

There  was  un  instant's  silence,  and  then  Judy 
turned  her  face  into  the  lamplight  from  the  draw- 
ing-room. "With  everything  but  the  essentials," 
she  said. 

We  stayed  late ;  Mr.  Chichcic  and  ourselves  were 
the  last  to  go.  Judy  walked  with  us  along  the 
moonlit  drive  to  the  gate,  which  is  so  unnecessary 
a  luxury  in  India  that  the  senants  always  leave  it 
open.     She  swung  the  stiff  halves  together. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "it  is  shut." 

"And  I,"  said  Somers  Chichele,  softly  and 
quickly,  "an.  on  the  other  side." 

Even  over  that  depth  she  could  flash  him  a  smile. 
"It  is  the  business  of  my  life,"  she  gave  him  in 
return,  "to  keep  this  gate  shut."  I  felt  as  if  they 
had  forgotten  us.  Somers  mounted  and  rode  off 
without  a  word;  we  were  walking  in  a  different 
direction.  Looking  back,  I  saw  Judy  leaning  im- 
movable on  the  gate,  while  Somers  turned  in  his 
saddle,  apparently  to  repeat  the  form  of  lifting 
his  hat.  And  all  about  them  stretched  the  stjnes 
24 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

of  Knbul  valley,  vnguc  and  forn>Ic„,  in  the  tide 
of  the  moonlight  .  .  . 

Next  day  a  note  from  Mrs.  IlarUttle  informed 
me  that  «hc  had  gone  to  Hon.hav  for  a  fortnight 
In  a  postscript  she  wrote,  "I  »hall  wait  for  the  Chi- 
chele,  there,  and  come  back  with  them  "  I  remem- 
ber reflecting  that  if  she  could  not  induce  herself 
to  take  a  passage  to  England  in  the  ship  that 
brought  them,  it  seemed  the  right  thing  to  do. 

She  did  come  back  with  them.     I  met  the  party 
at  the  station.     I  knew  Somers  would  meet  them, 
and  It  seemed  to  mc,  so  imminent  did  disaster  loom, 
that  some  one  else  should  be  there,  some  one  to  offer 
n  covering  movement  or  a  flank  support  wherever 
It  might  be  most  needed.    And  among  ull  our  smil- 
mg  faces  disaster  did  come,  or  the  cold  premoni- 
tion of  it.     W=  were  all  perfect,  but  Somers's  lip 
trembled.     Deprived  for  a  fortnight  he  was  eager 
for  the  draft,  and  he  was  only  twenty-six.     His 
lip  trembled,  and  there,  under  the  flickering  station- 
lamps,  suddenly  stood  that  of  which  there  never 
could  he  again  any  denial,  for  those  of  us  who  saw. 
Di<l  wc  make,  I  wonder,  even  a  pretense  of  dis- 
guising the  c.  isternation  that  sprang  up  amon- 
>is,  like  an  armed  thing,  ready  to  kill  any  further 
Miggestion  of  the  truth?     I  don't  know.     Anna 
Chichele's  unfinished  sentence  dropped  as  if  some- 
one had  given  her  a  blow  upon  the  mouth.    Coolies 
were  piling  the  luggage  into  a  hired  carriage  at  the 
25 


'^IIK    POOL    IN    THE    DESEKT 

cilffo  of  tlic  pliitfonii.  She  wnlkcd  nicclmnicnlly 
after  thciii,  Bnd  wotiltl  luivc  ntcppcd  in  with  it  but 
for  the  aight  of  her  own  glciiniinK  Inndau  drawn 
up  within  a  yurd  or  two,  and  the  ticncrnl  waiting. 
We  alt  got  home  Komchow,  taking  it  witli  us,  and 
I  gave  Lady  Chiclielc  twenty-four  houn  to  come 
to  nic  witli  her  face  all  one  question  ond  licr  hcort 
all  one  fear.    She  came  in  twelve. 

"Have  you  seen  it — long?"  Prepared  os  1  was 
her  directness  was  demoralizing. 

"It  isn't  a  mortal  disease." 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake " 

"Well,  not  with  certainty,  for  more  than  a 
month." 

She  made  .1  !''i'?  spasvio'lio  movement  with  her 
hands,  then  dropped  them  pitifully.  "Couldn't 
you  do  anjything?" 

I  looked  at  her,  and  she  said  at  once,  "No,  of 
course  you  couldn't." 

For  a  moment  or  two  I  took  my  share  of  the 
heavy  sense  of  it,  my  trivial  sliare,  which  yet  was 
an  experience  sufficiently  exciting.  "1  am  afraid 
it  will  have  to  be  faced,"  I  said. 

"What  will  happen?"  Anna  cried.  "Oh,  what 
will  happen?" 

"Why   not  the  usual  thing?"     Lady   Chichcle 

looked  up  quickly  as  if  at  a  reminder.    "The  am- 

higuous  attachment  of  the  country,"  I  went  on, 

limping  but  courageous,  "half  declared,  half  ad- 

S6 


Tin:    POOL    IN    THE    DKSERT 

niitlcd,  that  IcaiU  vmRurly  nowhere,  anil  finiilly 
pcrislics  ns  fhc  innn's  life  enriclie*  itself— the  tliinjf 
»c  have  seen  »o  often." 

"Wliatevor  Judy  is  rapnbie  of  it  won't  be  the 
usual  thing.    Vou  know  that." 

I  had  to  confess  in  silence  that  I  did. 

"It  flashed  at  nic— the  difference  in  her— in  Uoin- 
bay."  She  pressed  her  lips  together  and  then  went 
on  unsteadily.  "In  her  eyes,  her  voice.  She  was 
mannered,  extravagant,  elalwrate.  With  me !  All 
the  way  up  I  wondered  and  worried.  Dut  1  never 
thought — "  She  stopped ;  her  voice  simply  shook 
itself  into  silence.     I  called  a  s.      int. 

"I  am  going  to  give  you  a  gcHMl  stiff  peg,"  I 
'aid.  I  apologize  for  the  "peg,"  but  not  for  Hie 
whisky  met  soda.  It  is  a  beverage  on  the  frontier, 
of  which  the  vulgarity  is  lost  in  the  value.  While 
it  was  roniing  I  tried  to  talk  of  other  things,  but 
she  would  only  nod  absently  in  the  pauses. 

"Last  night  we  dined  with  him,  it  was  guest  night 
at  the  mess,  and  she  was  there.  I  watched  her,  and 
she  knew  it.  I  don't  know  whether  she  tried,  but 
anyway,  she  failed.  The  covenant  between  them 
was  written  on  her  forehead  whenever  she  looked  at 
him,  though  that  was  seldom.  She  dared  not  look 
at  him.  And  the  little  conversation  that  they  had 
— you  would  have  laughed — i'  t  as  a  comedy  of 
stutters.     The  facile  Mrs.  Harbottic!" 

"You    do    well    to    be    angry,    naturally,"    I 
"  87 


'mM^_^' 


JHfc«a/' 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

said;  "but  it  would  be  fatal   to  let  yourself  go, 
Anna." 

"Angry?  Oh,  I  am  sick.  The  misery  of  it! 
The  terror  of  it!  If  it  were  anybody  but  Judy! 
t'an't  you  imagine  the  passion  of  a  temperament 
like  that  in  a  woman  who  has  all  these  years  been 
feeding  on  herself?  I  tell  you  she  will  take  him 
from  my  very  arms.  And  he  will  go — to  I  dare 
not  imagine  what  catastrophe!  Who  can  prevent 
it?  Who  can  prevent  it?" 
"There  is  you,"  I  said. 

Lady  Chichele  laughed  hysterically.  "I  think 
you  ought  to  say,  'There  are  you.'  I — what  can 
I  do?  Do  you  realize  that  it's  Judy?  My  friend 
— my  other  self?  Do  you  think  we  can  <lrag  all 
that  out  of  it?  Do  you  think  a  tie  like  that  can 
be  broken  by  an  accident — by  a  misfortune?  With 
it  all  I  adore  Judy  Harbottle.  I  love  her,  as  I 
have  always  loved  her,  and — it's  damnable,  but  I 
don't  know  whether,  whatever  happened,  I  wouldn't 
go  on  loving  her." 

"Finish  your  peg,"  I  said.  She  was  sobbing. 
"Where  I  blame  myself  most,"  she  went  on,  "is 
for  not  seeing  in  him  all  that  makes  him  mature 
to  her— that  makes  her  forget  the  absurd  differ- 
ence between  them,  and  take  him  simply  and  sin- 
cerely as  I  know  she  does,  as  the  contemporary 
of  her  soul  if  not  of  her  body.  I  saw  none  of  that. 
Could  I,  as  h^  mother?  Would  he  show  it  to  me? 
28 


vc 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

I  thought  him  just  a  charming  boy.  clever  too  of 
™urse    w,th  nice  instinct.  „nd  we,  pU  c  ed     .e 

Z  di/r  r  ^  !  •"'^^"''  ''^'  ^'-PP^''  thinking 
now  different  he  looks  without  his  curls  AnA  T 
thought  she  would  be  iust  linA       a  ■  ^ 

"He  is  your  son." 

"Would  you  have  me  appeal  to  her?     n„ 
know  I  don't  think  I  could?"  ^°" 

It  must  spnng  upon  her  and  grow  before  her  out 

confiH             rj  ""-^  ■'  ^'°"  '•-  ">"-«<=  it,  your 
confidence.     There  is  a  great  deal,  after  a  1    re 
nicmber,  to  hold  her  in  that.     I  can't  somehow  im 
ag.no  her  failing  you.     Otherwise '' 

di'is::;::^'^"-^^-^'--'^^^— "^oan- 

"Otherwise  she  would  be  capable  of  sacrificin:r 
evcrytlnng-everything.      Of   gathering    1,  -^ 

moa„,  j,„„^     And  do  you  know    f 

th  ng  were  less  impossible,  less  grotesque,  I  shou  d 
not  be  so  much  afraid?  I  mean  that  th  „,M 
mdefensibihty  of  it  might  bring  her  a  reckles^ 

and  a  momentum  which  might " 

"Send  her  over  the  verge,"  I  said.     "Well    ao 
home  and  ask  her  to  dinner."  ^ 

99 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  to  say,  of  course, 
than  I  have  thought  proper  to  put  down  here,  but 
before  Anna  went  I  saw  that  she  was  keyed  up  to 
the  heroic  part.     This  was  none  the  less  to  her 
credit  because  it  was  the  only  part,  the  dictation 
of  a  sense  of  expediency  that  despaired  while  it 
dictated.    The  noble  thing  was  her  capacity  to  take 
it,  and,  amid  all  that  warred  in  her,  to  carry  it  out 
on  the  brave  high  lines  of  her  inspiration.     It 
seemed  a  literal  inspiration,  so  perfectly  calculated 
that  it  was  hard  not  to  think  sometimes,  when  one 
saw  them  together,  that  Anna  had  been  lulled  into 
a  simple   resumption  of  the   old   relation.      Then 
from  the  least  thing  possible — the  lift  of  an  eye- 
lid— it  flashed  upon  one  that  between   these  two 
every  moment  was  dramatic,  and  one  took  up  the 
word  with  a  curious  sense  of  detachment  and  fu- 
tility,  but   with   one's   heart  beating   like   a   trip- 
hammer with  the  mad  excitement  of  it.     The  acute 
thing  was  the  splendid  sincerity  of  Judy   Har- 
bottle's  response.     For  days   she  was   profoundly 
on  her  guard,  then  suddenly  she  seemed  to  become 
practically,  vividly  aware  of  what  I  must  go  on 
calling  the  great  chance,  and  passionately  to  fling 
herself  upon  it.     It  was  the  strangest  cooperation 
without  a  word  or  a  sign  to  show  it  conscious — a 
playing  together  for  stakes  that  could  not  be  ad- 
mitted, a  thing  to  hang  upon  breathless.     It  was 
there  between  them — the  tenable  ground  of  what 
30 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

they  were  to  each  other:  they  occupied  it  with  al- 
most an  equal  eye  upon  the  tide  tliat  threatened) 
while  I  from  my  mainland  tower  also  made  an  an- 
guished calculation  of  the  chances.  I  think,  in 
spite  of  the  menace,  they  found  real  heatitudes ; 
so  keenly  did  they  set  about  the  business  that  it 
brouglit  them  moments  finer  than  any  they  could 
count  in  the  years  that  were  behind  them,  the  flat 
and  colorless  years  that  were  gone.  Once  or  twice 
the  wild  idea  even  visited  me  that  it  was,  after  all, 
the  projection  of  his  mother  in  Somers  that  had  so 
seized  Judy  Harbottle,  and  that  the  original  was 
all  that  was  needed  to  help  the  happy  process  of 
detachment.  Somers  himself  at  the  time  was  a 
good  deal  away  on  escort  duty :  they  had  a  clear 
field. 

I  can  not  tell  exactly  when — between  Mrs.  Har- 
bottle and  myself — It  became  a  matter  for  refer- 
ence more  or  less  overt,  I  mean  her  defined  prob- 
lem, the  thing  that  went  about  between  her  and 
the  sun.  It  will  be  imagined  that  it  did  not  come 
up  like  the  weather;  indeed,  it  was  hardly  ever 
to  be  envisaged  and  never  to  be  held;  but  it  was 
always  there,  and  out  of  our  joint  consciousness 
it  would  sometimes  leap  and  pass,  without  shape 
or  face.  It  might  slip  between  two  sentences,  or 
it  might  remain,  a  dogging  shadow,  for  an  hour. 
Or  a  week  would  go  by  while,  with  a  strong  hand, 
she  held  it  out  of  sight  altogether  and  talked  of 
31 


J^.-rM 


11  i 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

Anna — always  of  Anna.  Her  eyes  shone  with  the 
things  she  told  nie  tlien:  she  seemed  to  keep  her- 
self under  the  influence  of  tliem  as  if  they  had  the 
power  of  nurcoticj.  At  the  end  of  a  time  like  this 
she  turned  to  me  in  the  door  as  she  was  going  and 
utood  silent,  as  if  she  could  neither  go  nor  stay. 
1  liiid  been  able  to  make  nothing  of  her  that  after- 
noon :  she  had  seemed  preoccupied  with  the  pat- 
tern of  the  carpet  which  she  traced  continually 
with  her  riding  crop,  and  finally  I,  too,  had  re- 
lapsed. She  sat  haggard,  with  the  fight  forever 
in  her  eyes,  and  the  day  seemed  to  somber  about 
her  in  her  corner.  When  she  turned  in  tlie  door, 
I  looked  up  with  sudden  prescience  of  a  crisis. 

"Don't  jump,"  sIk  said,  "it  was  only  to  tell  you 
that  I  liave  persuaded  Robert  to  apply  for  fur- 
lough. Eighteen  months.  From  the  first  of  April. 
Don't  touch  me."  I  suppose  I  made  a  movement 
toward  her.  Certainly  I  wanted  to  throw  my 
arms  about  her;  with  the  instinct,  I  suppose,  to 
steady  her  in  her  great  resolution. 

"At  the  end  of  that  time,  as  you  know,  he  will 
be  retired.  I  had  some  trouble,  he  is  so  keen  on 
the  regiment,  but  I  think— I  have  succeeded.  You 
mifeht  mention  it  to  Anna." 

"Haven't  you?"  sprang  past  my  lips. 

"1  can't.  It  weald  be  like  taking  an  oath  to  tell 
lic!,  and — I  can't  take  an  oath  to  go.  But  I  mean 
to." 


MMa.-^. 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  said,"  I  brought  out, 
feeling  indeed  that  there  was  not.  "But  I  con- 
gratulate you,  Judy." 

"No,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said.  And  you  con- 
gratulate rnc,  no  doubt !" 

Slic  stood  for  a  moment  quivering  in  the  isola- 
tion slie  made  for  herself;  and  I  felt  a  primitive 
angry  revolt  against  the  delicate  trafficking  of 
souls  that  could  end  in  such  ravage  and  disaster. 
The  price  was  too  heavy;  I  would  have  denuded 
her,  at  the  moment,  of  all  that  had  led  her  into 
this,  and  turned  her  out  a  clod  with  fine  shoulders 
like  fifty  other  women  in  Peshawur.  Then,  per- 
haps, because  I  held  myself  silent  and  remote  and 
she  had  no  emotion  of  fear  from  me,  she  did  not 
immediately  go. 

"It  will  beat  itself  away.  I  suppose,  like  the  rest 
of  the  unreasonable  pain  of  the  world,"  she  said 
at  last;  and  that,  of  course,  brought  me  to  her 
side.  '"Things  will  go  back  to  their  proportions. 
This,"  she  touched  an  open  rose,  "will  claim  its 
beauty  again.  And  life  .vill  become — perhaps — 
what  it  was  before."  Still  I  found  nothing  to  say, 
I  could  only  put  my  arm  in  hers  and  walk  with  her 
to  the  edge  of  the  veranda  where  the  syce  was 
holding  her  horse.  She  stroked  tlie  animal's  neck. 
"Everything  in  me  answered  him,"  she  informed 
nic,  with  the  grave  intelligence  of  a  patient  who 
relates  a  symptom  past.  As  she  took  the  reins 
33 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

she  turned  to  me  again.  "His  spirit  came  to  mine 
like  a  homing  bird,"  she  said,  and  in  licr  smile  even 
the  pale  reflection  of  happiness  was  sweet  and  stir- 
ring. It  left  me  hanging  in  imagination  over  the 
source  and  the  stream,  a  little  blessed  in  the  mere 
understanding. 

Too  much  blessed  for  confidence,  or  any  safe 
feeling  that  the  source  was  bound.     Rather  I  saw 
it  leaping  over  every  obstacle,  flashing  to  its  des- 
tiny.    As  I  drove  to  the  Club  next  day  I  decided 
that  I  would  not  tell  Anna  Chichele  of  Colonel 
Harbottle's  projected  furlough.     If  to  Judy  tell- 
ing her  would  be  like  taking  an  oath  that  they 
would  go,  to  me  il  .vould  at  least  be  like  assuming 
sponsorship   for  their  intention.     That  would  be 
heavy  indeed.     From  the  1st  of  April— we  were 
then  in  March.     Anna  would  hear  it  soon  enough 
from  the  General,  would  see  it  soon  enough,  almost, 
in  the  Gaxette,  when  it  would  have  passed  into 
irrecoverable  fact.     So  I  went  by  }ier  with  locked 
lips,  kept  out  of  the  way  of  those  eyes  of  the 
mother  that  asked  and  asked,  and  would  have  seen 
clear  to  any  depth,  any  hiding-place  of  knowledge 
like  that.    As  I  pulled  up  at  the  Club  I  saw  Colo- 
nel Harbottle  talking  concernedly  to  the  wife  of 
our  Second-in-Command,  and  was  reminded  that  I 
had  not  heard  for  some  days  how  Major  Watkins 
was  going  on.     So  I,  too,  approached  Mrs.  Wat- 
kins  in  her  victoria  to  ask.    Robert  Harbottle  kind- 
84 


THE    POOL   IN    THE   DESERT 

ly  forestalled  her  reply.  "Hard  luck,  isn't  it? 
VVatkins  has  been  ordered  iiome  at  once.  Just  set- 
tled into  their  new  house,  too-  last  of  the  kit  came 
up  from  Calcutta  yesterday  didn't  it,  Mrs.  Wat- 
kins?  But  it's  sound  to  go— Peshawur  is  the  worst 
hole  in  Asia  to  shake  off  dysentery  in." 

We  agreed  upon  this  and  discussed  the  sale-list 
of  her  new  furniture  that  Mrs.  VVatkins  would 
have  to  send  round  the  station,  and  considered  the 
chances  of  a  trooper— to  the  Watkinses  with  two 
children  and  not  a  penny  but  his  pay  it  did  make 
it  easier  not  to  have  to  go  by  a  liner— and  Colonel 
Harbottle  and  I  were  half-way  to  the  reading- 
room  before  the  significance  of  Major  VVatkin's 
sick-leave  flashed  upon  me. 

"But  this,"  I  cried,  "will  make  a  difference  to 

your  plans.     You  won't " 

"Be  able  to  ask  for  that  furlough  Judy  wants. 
Rather  not.  I'm  afraid  snc's  disappointed— she 
was  tremendously  set  on  going— but  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter tuppence  to  me." 

I  sought  out  Mrs.  Harbottle,  at  the  end  of  the 
room.  She  looked  radiant ;  she  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  and  swung  a  light-hearted  heel.  She 
was  talking  to  people  who  in  themselves  were  a 
witness  to  high  spirits,  Captain  the  Hon.  Freddy 
Gisborne,  Mrs.  Flamboys. 

At  sight  of  me  her  face  clouded,  fell  suddenly 
into  the  old  weary  lines.     It  made  me  feel  some- 
3S 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

how  a  little  sick;  I  went  back  to  my  cart  and 
drove  home. 

For  more  than  a  week  I  did  not  see  her  except 
when  I  met  her  riding  witli  Somers  Chichele  along 
the  peach-bordered  rond  that  leads  to  the  Wazir- 
Uagb..  The  trees  were  all  in  blossom  and  made  a 
picture  that  might  well  catch  dreaming  hearts 
into  a  beatitude  that  would  correspond.  The  air 
was  full  of  spring  and  the  scent  of  violets,  those 
wonderful  Peshawur  violets  that  grow  in  great 
clumps,  tall  and  double.  Gracious  clouds  came  and 
trailed  across  the  frontier  barrier;  blue  as  an 
idyll  it  rose  about  us ;  the  city  smiled  in  her  gar- 
dens. 

She  hod  it  oil  in  her  face,  poor  Judy,  all  the 
spring  softness  and  more,  the  morning  she  came, 
intensely  controlled,  to  announce  her  defeat.  I  was 
in  the  drawing-room  doing  the  flowers ;  I  put  them 
down  to  look  at  her.  The  wonderful  telegram  from 
Simla  arrived — that  was  the  wonderful  part — at 
the  same  time ;  I  remember  how  the  red,  white,  and 
blue  turban  of  the  telegraph  peon  bobbed  up  be- 
hind her  shoulder  in  the  veranda.  I  signed  and 
laid  it  on  the  table;  I  suppose  it  seemed  hardly 
likely  that  anything  could  be  important  enough 
to  interfere  at  the  moment  with  my  impression  of 
what  love,  unbound  and  victorious,  could  do  with 
a  face  I  thought  I  knew.  Love  sat  there  careless 
of  the  issue,  full  of  delight.  Love  proclaimed  that 
36 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

between  liim  and  Judith  Hnrbottle  it  was  all  over 
— she  had  met  him,  alas,  in  too  narrow  a  place — 
and  I  marveled  at  the  paradox  with  which  he  soft- 
ened every  curve  and  underlined  every  vivid  note 
of  personality  in  token  that  it  had  just  begun. 
He  sat  there  in  great  serenity,  and  though  I  knew 
that  somewhere  behind  lurked  a  vanquished  woman, 
I  saw  her  through  such  a  radiance  that  I  could  not 
be  sure  of  seeing  her  at  all  .   .  . 

She  went  back  to  the  very  first  of  it ;  she  seemed 
herself  intensely  interested  in  the  facts ;  and  there 
is  no  use  in  pretending  that,  while  she  talked,  the 
moral  consideration  was  at  all  present  with  me 
cither;  it  wasn't.  Her  extremity  was  the  thing 
that  absorbed  us;  she  even,  in  tender  thoughtful- 
ness,  diagnosed  it  from  its  definite  beautiful  be- 
ginning, 

"It  was  there,  in  my  heart,  when  I  woke  one 
morning,  exquisite  and  strange,  the  assurance  of 
a  gift.  How  had  it  come  there,  while  I  slept?  I 
assure  you  when  I  closed  my  eyes  it  did  not  exist 
for  me.  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course,  I  had  seen  him,  but 
only  somewhere  at  dinner  ...  As  tlie  day  went 
on  it  changed — it  turned  into  a  clear  pool,  into 
a  flower.  And  I — think  of  my  not  understanding ! 
I  was  pleased  with  it!  For  a  long  time,  for 
days,  I  never  dreamed  that  it  could  be  anything 
but  a  little  secret  joy.  Then,  suddenly— oh,  I 
had  not  been  perceiving  cnougli! — it  was  in  all 
37 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

my  veins,  a  tidf,  an  ifflorcsconco,  a  tiling  of  my 
very  life. 

"Tliin— it  was  a  little  late— I  understood,  and 
since " 

"1  began  by  hating  it— being  furious,  furious 
— and  afraid,  too.  Sometimes  it  was  like  a  low 
cloud,  hovering  and  traveling  always  with  nie, 
sometimes  like  a  beast  of  prey  that  went  a  little 
way   off  and  sat   looking  at  me  .   . 

"I  have— done  my  best.  But  there  is  nothing 
to  do,  to  kill,  to  abolish.  How  can  I  say,  'I  will 
not  let  you  in,'  when  it  is  already  there?  How 
can  1  assume  indifference  when  this  thing  is  imposed 
upon  every  moment  of  my  day?  And  it  has 
grown  so  sweet  —  the  longing  —  that  —  isn't  it 
strange?— I  could  more  willingly  give  him  up  than 
the  desire  of  him.  That  seems  as  impossible  to 
part  with  as  life  itself." 

She  sat  reflective  for  n  moment,  and  I  saw  her 
eyes  slowly  fill. 

"Don't— don't  cry,  Judy,"  I  faltered,  wanting 
to  horribly,  myself. 

She  smiled  them  dry. 

"Not  now.  But  I  am  giving  myself,  I  suppose, 
to  many  tears." 

"God  help  you,"  I  paid.  What  else  was  there 
to  say? 

"There  is  no  such  person,"  she  replied,  gaily. 
"There  is  only  a  blessed  devil." 
88 


IE  ' 

I;  * 

11  r 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

"Then  you  go  all  the  way— 1„  the  logical  con- 
clusion?" 

She  hardly  hesitated.  "To  tlie  logical  conclu- 
sion.    What  poor  words!" 

"May  I  ask — when?" 

"I  should  like  to  tell  you  that  quite  definitely, 
and  I  think  I  can.  The  English  mail  leaves  to- 
night." 

"And  you  have  arranged  to  take  it?" 

"VVc  have  arranged  nothing.  Do  you  know" 
— she  smiled  as  if  at  the  fresh  colors  of  an  idyll 
— "we  have  not  even  come  to  the  admission?  There 
has  been  between  us  no  word,  no  vision.  Ah,  wc 
have  gone  in  bonds,  and  dumb!  Hours  we  have 
had,  exquisite  hours  of  the  spirit,  but  never  a  mo- 
ment of  the  heart,  a  moment  confessed.  It  was 
mine  to  give — that  moment,  and  he  has  waited — 
I  know — wondering  whether  perhaps  it  would  ever 
come.  And  to-day— we  are  going  for  a  ride  to- 
day, and  I  do  not  think  wc  shall  conic  back." 

"O  Judy,"  I  cried,  catching  at  her  sleeve,  "he 
is  only  a  boy !" 

"Tlicre  were  times  when  I  thought  that  conclu- 
sive. Now  the  misery  of  it  has  gone  to  sleep ;  don't 
waken  it.  It  pleases  me  to  believe  that  the  years 
arc  a  convention.  I  never  had  any  dignity,  you 
know,  and  I  seem  to  have  missed  the  moral  deliv- 
erance. I  only  want — oh,  you  know  what  I  want. 
Why  don't  you  open  your  telegram?" 
39 


ai4i.  ii^r  i:^jL 


I 


THE    POOL    IN    THK    DESKHT 

I  liml  lH.cn  folding  nnd  finRcrinR  the  brown  en- 
velope n»  if  it  Imd  been  a  scrnp  of  w«»le-pftper. 

"It  i.n  probably  from  Mrs.  Watkins  about  the 
victoria,"  I  .aid,  feeling  its  profound  irrelevance. 
"I  wired  an  offer  to  her  in  Bombay,  However"— 
«n.I  I  read  the  tclcBrani,  the  little  reiving  telcRram 
i.om  Army  Headquarters.  I  turnwl  my  back  on 
licr  to  read  it  again,  and  then  I  rejilaced  it  very 
carefully  and  put  it  in  my  pocket.  It  was  a  mo- 
-iient  to  take  hold  of  with  both  hands,  crying  on 
all  one'.i  g,„ls  for  steadiness. 

"How  white  you   look!"  said   Mrs.   Harbottle. 
With  concern.     "Not  bad  news?" 

"On  the  contrary,  excellent  news.     Judy,  will 
you  stay  to  lunch?" 

She  looked  at  me,  hesitating.       ""  .    ■:    ,■     ,,p„ 
rother  a   compromise  on   your  pr.i  '  ,   ,., 

ought  to  be  rousing  the  city ' 

''I  don't  intend  to  rouse  the  city,"  1  said. 
"I  have  given  you  the  chance." 
"Thank  you,"  I  said,  grimly,  "but  the  only  real 
favor  you   can  do  n,c  is  to  stay  and  lunch."     It 
was  then  just  on  one. 

"I'll  stay,"  she  said,  "if  you  will  promise  not  to 
make  any  sort  of  effort.  I  shouldn't  mind,  but 
Jt  would  distress  you." 

"I  promise  absolutely,"  I  said,  and  ironical  joy 
rose  up  in  me,  and  the  telegram  burned  in  my 
pocket.  •' 

40 


«■     ji# 


THE    POOL    IN    THK    DESERT 

She  would  t,k„f  ;,.,„„„«,.  I  found  it  hard  la 

H  d, I r» ',"::'"« "■"' '""*'■"« ""<'  •'"--« 

'I'  "''":.'"'' •'"^"''™»'  it -'"<<1  not  be 

-  w„- very  ,.ttlo  about  ..e„clf  that  »hc  wanted 

H     n.c;  .sl,e  .„,  there  confe.cd  a  woman  whon, 

joy  hud  overcome;  ,t  wa,  understood  that  we  both 

-ptod  that  .i.uatfon.     But  in  the  detail,  wS 

.   «»kcd  me  to  take  charge  of  it  w„,  plain  that 

:5  .:;:e!::.'" "  ""^"'"'  ^^-^  -'-'■•  ^"'<-'""«"' 

\Vo  were  in  the  rIrawi„R-r„on,.  The  httle  round 
clork  ,„  ,ts  Amritsar  c„,e  marked  half-past  three. 
.  "<ly  put  down  her  coffee-cup  an.l  rie  to  «o 
A»  she  glanced  at  the  clock  the  light  deepened  in 
W  eyes  and!,  with  her  hand  in  mine,  felt  io 
thrjr  *':  ""'-^cr-for  it  was  half-p„s 

H.ree-c„nsumed  myself  with  fear  lest  the  blow  had 
m^carncd  Then  as  we  stood,  suddenly,  the  sound 
of  hoo  s  at  a  gallop  on  the  dr.ve,  and  my  husband 

row  ,mseIfoff„tthedoorandtore^hrough 
tl.c  hal  to  h.s  room;  and  in  the  certainty  til 
"verwhe  med  ,„e  even  Ju.ly,  for  an  instant,  stood 
dun  and  remote. 

IT  "l ' m"""  t'1  r™'  *°  '"'  '■"  "  ^""y"  ««'■''  Mrs. 
larbott  e,  hghtly.    "I  have  always  liked  your  hus- 

»uul.     I  wonder  whether  he  will  say  to-morrow 
that  he  always  liked  me." 

'•Dear  Judy,  1  don't  think  he  will  be  occupied 
with  you  to-morrow."  ^ 

41 


I  I 


THE    POOL   IN    THE   DESERT 

"Oh,  surely,  just  a  little,  if  I  go  to-night." 

"\ou  won't  go  to-night." 

She  looked  at  me  helplessly.  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
insisting  upon  her  abasement  instead  of  her  salva- 
tion.    "I  wish » 

T    ?^,"'"  ""'  «"'»«— you're  not!     You  con't! 

I  pulled  it  out  of  my  poeket  and  thrust  it  at  her 
the  telegram.  It  came,  against  every  regula- 
tion, from  my  good  friend  the  Deputy  Adjutant- 
General,  ,n  Simla,  and  it  read,  "fl«.  Khurram 
l~th  probably  ordered  front  three  hour,'  time." 
Her  face  changed-how  my  heart  leaped  to  see 
It  change  .'-and  that  took  command  there  which 
*.II  command  trampling,  even  in  the  women  of  the 
camp,  at  news  like  this. 

,  """Itf  .'"'*'  ""'*  ^"^  "■'"''^"'*  t«ke  his  fur- 
lough! she  exclaimed,  single-thoughted.  "But 
you  have  known  this  for  hours"-there  was  even 
something  of  the  Colonel's  wife,  authority,  incisive- 
ness.     "Why  didn't  you  tell  me?     Ah-I  see  " 

I  stood  before  her  abashed,  and  that  was  ridicu- 
lous, while  she  measured  me  as  if  I  presented  i„ 
mysdf  the  woman  I  took  her  to  be.  "It  wasn't  like 
that  she  said.  I  had  to  defend  myself.  "Judy  " 
I  said,  "if  you  weren't  in  honor  bound  to  Ann!, 
how  could  I  know  that  you  would  be  in  honor  bound 
to  the  regiment.?    There  was  a  train  at  throe." 

I  beg  to  assure  you  that  you  have  overcalcu- 
42 


»^»i: 


THE    POOL   IN   THE   DESERT 

lated."  said  Mrs.  Harbottlc.  Her  eyes  were  hard 
and  proud.  "And  I  am  not  sure"-a  deep  red 
swept  over  her  faee,  a  man's  blush-«in  the  light 
of  this  I  am  not  sure  that  I  am  not  in  honor  bound 
to  Anna." 

We  had  reached  the  veranda,  and  at  her  signal 
her  coachman  drt,ve  quickly  up.  "You  have  kept 
n.e  here  three  hours  when  there  was  the  whole  of 
Bob  s  k.t  to  see  to,"  she  said,  as  she  flung  herself 
in;    you  might  have  thought  of  that." 

It  was  a  more  than  usually  tedious  campaign, 
and  Colone    Robert  Harbottle  was  ambushed  and 
shot  ma  place  where  one  must  believe  pure  bore- 
dom induced  him  to  take  his  men.     The  incident 
was  reheved.  the  newspapers  said-and  they  are 
seldom  so  clever  in  finding  relief  for  such  incidents 
-by  the  dash  and  courage  shown  by  Lioi-tenant 
Chichele,  who,  ,n  one  of  those  feats  which  it  has 
la  cly  been  the  fashion  to  criticize,  carried  the  mor- 
tally wounded  body  of  his  Colonel  out  of  range 
at  conspicuous  risk  of  depriving  the  Queen  of  an- 
other officer.     I  helped  Judy  with  her  silent  pack- 
ing; she  had  forgiven  me  long  before  that;  and 
she  settled  almost  at  once  into  the  flat  in  Chelsea 
Which  has  since  been  credited  with  so  delightful 
an  atmosphere,  went  back  straight  into  her  own 
world.     I  have  always  kept  her  fir.t  letters  about 
It,  always^shaU.    For  months  after,  while  the  expe- 
43 


THE    POOL   IN    THE   DESERT 

dition  still  raged  after  snipers  and  rifle-thieves,  I 
discussed  with  Lady  Chichele  the  probable  outcome 
of  it  all.  I  have  sometimes  felt  ashamed  of  leaping 
as  straight  as  I  did  with  Anna  to  what  we  thought 
the  inevitable.  I  based  no  calculation  on  all  Mrs. 
Harbottle  had  gone  back  to,  just  as  I  had  based 
no  calculation  on  her  ten  years'  companionship  in 
arms  when  I  kept  her  from  the  three  o'clock  train. 
This  last  was  a  retrospection  in  which  Anna  natu- 
rally could  not  join  me ;  she  never  knew,  poor  dear, 
how  fortunate  as  to  its  moment  was  the  campaign 
she  deplored,  and  nothing  to  this  day  can  have  dis- 
turbed her  conviction  that  the  bond  she  was  at  such 
magnificent  pains  to  strengthen,  held  against  the 
strain,  as  long,  happily,  as  the  supreme  need  ex- 
isted. "How  right  you  were!"  she  often  said. 
"She  did,  after  all,  love  me  best,  dear,  wonderful 
Judy !"  Her  distress  about  poor  Robert  Harbottle 
was  genuine  enough,  but  one  could  not  be  surprised 
at  a  certain  ambiguity;  one  tear  for  Robert,  so 
to  speak,  and  two  for  her  boy.  It  could  hardly 
be,  for  him,  a  marriage  after  his  mother's  heart. 
And  she  laid  down  with  some  emphasis  that  Somers 
was  brilliantly  entitled  to  all  he  was  likely  to  get 
— which  was  natural,  too  .  .  . 

I  had  been  from  the  beginning  so  much  "in  it" 

that  Anna  showed  me,  a  year  later,  though  I  don't 

believe  she  liked  doing  it,  the  letter  in  part  of 

which  Mrs.  Harbottle  shall  finally  excuse  herself. 

44 


THE    POOL    IN    THE    DESERT 

"Somcrs  will  give  you  this,"  I  read,  "and  with 
it  take  back  your  son.  You  will  not  find,  I  know, 
anything  grotesque  in  the  charming  enthusiasm 
with  which  he  has  offered  his  life  to  me;  you  un- 
derstand too  well,  you  are  too  kind.  And  if  you 
wonder  that  ^  can  so  render  up  a  dear  thing  which 
I  might  keep  and  would  once  have  taV?n,  think  how 
sweet  in  the  desert  is  the  pool,  and  how  barren  was 
the  prospect  from  Dalclutha." 

It  was  like  her  to  abandon  in  pride  a  happiness 
that  asked  so  much  less  humiliation;  I  don't  know 
why,  but  it  was  like  her.  And  of  course,  when  one 
thought  of  it,  she  had  consulted  all  sorts  of  high 
expediencies.  But  I  sat  silent  with  remembrance, 
quieting  a  pang  in  my  heart,  trying  not  to  calcu- 
late how  much  it  had  cost  Judy  Harbottle  to  take 
her  second  chance. 


45 


O    .  T.itir' 


vT     ilTnIi 


A  MOTHER  IN   INDIA 


im'SM^ai  r^^d 


i,W    'IMft'iHSF'Zr  <i«|i«itf 


:rV''1il  »«!^«^ 


CHAPTER  I 

There  were  times  when  wc  had  to  go  without 
pudilings  to  pay  John's  uniform  bills,  and  always 
I  did  the  facings  myself  with  a  cloth-ball  to  save 
getting   new    ones.     I    would    have    polished    his 
sword,  too,  if  I  had  been  allowed;  I  adored  his 
sword.     And   once,  I  remember,  wc  painted  and 
varnished   our  own   dog-cart,  and  very   smart  it 
looked,  to  save  fifty  rupees.     Wc  had  nothing  but 
our  pay — John  had  his  company  when  wc  were 
married,  but  what  is  that? — and  life  was  made 
up  of  small  knowing  economies,  much  more  amus- 
ing  in   recollection   than   in   practise.     We   were 
sodden  poor,  and  that  is  a  fact,  poor  and  consci- 
entious, which  was  worse.     A  big  fat  spider  of  a 
money-lender  came  one  day  into  the  veranda  and 
tempted  us — we  lived  in  a  hut,  but  it  had  a  veran- 
da— and   John  threatened   to  report  him  to  the 
police.     Poor  when  everybody  else  had  enough  to 
live  in  the  open-handed  Indian  fashion,  that  was 
what  made  it  so  hard ;  we  were  alone  in  our  sordid 
little  ways.     When  the  expectation  of  Cecily  came 
to  us  we  made  out  to  be  delighted,  knowing  that 
the  whole  station  pitied  us,  and  when  Cecily  came 
49 


mnrw.^sm 


tE^VWOTi' 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 


herself,  with  a  swamping  burst  of  expense,  we  kept 
up  the  pretense  splendidly.  She  was  peevish,  poor 
little  thing,  and  she  threatened  convulsions  from 
the  beginning,  but  we  both  knew  that  it  was  ab- 
normal not  to  love  her  a  great  deal,  more  than  life, 
immediately  and  increasingly ;  and  we  applied  our- 
selves honestly  to  do  it,  with  the  thermometer  at  a 
hundred  and  two,  and  the  nurse  leaving  at  the  end 
of  a  fortnight  because  she  discovered  that  I  had 
only  six  of  everything  for  the  table.  To  find  out 
a  husband's  virtues,  you  -nust  marry  a  poor  man. 
The  regiment  was  under-officered  as  usual,  and 
John  had  to  take  parade  at  daylight  quite  three 
times  a  week ;  but  he  walked  up  and  down  the  veran- 
da with  Cecily  constantly  till  two  in  the  morning, 
when  a  little  coolness  came.  I  usually  lay  awake 
the  rest  of  the  night  in  fear  that  a  scorpion  would 
drop  from  the  ceiling  on  her.  Nevertheless,  we 
were  of  excellent  mind  toward  Cecily;  we  were  in 
such  terror,  not  so  much  of  failing  in  our  duty 
toward  her  as  toward  the  ideal  standard  of  man- 
kind. We  were  very  anxious  indeed  not  to  come 
short.  To  be  found  too  small  for  one's  place  in 
nature  would  have  been  odious.  We  would  talk 
about  her  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  even  when  John's 
charger  was  threatening  glanders  and  I  could  see 
his  mind  perpetually  wandering  to  the  stable.  I 
would  say  to  John  that  she  had  brought  a  new  ele- 
ment into  our  lives — she  had  indeed! — and  John 
fiO 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

would  reply,  "I  know  what  you  iiicun,"  and  ro  on 
to  prophesy  that  she  would  "bind  us  together." 
VVc  didn't  need   binding  together;  we  were  more 
to  each  other,  there  in  the  desolation  of  tliat  arid 
frontier  outpost,  than  most  husbands  and  wives; 
but  it  seemed  a  proper  and  hopeful  tiling  to  be- 
lieve, so  we  believed  it.    Of  course,  the  real  experi- 
ence would  have  come,  wc  weren't  monsters;  but 
fate  curtailed  the  opportunity.     She  was  just  five 
weeks  old  when  the  doctor  told  us  that  we  must 
either  pack  her  home  immediately  or  lose  her,  and 
the  very  next  day  John  went  down  with  enteric. 
So  Cecily  was  sent  to  England  with  a  sergeant's 
wife  who  had  lost  her  twins,  and  I  settled  down  un- 
der the  direction  of  a  native  doctor,  to  fight  for  my 
husband's  life,  without  ice  or  proper  food,  or  sick- 
room comforts  of  any  sort.     Ah !  Fort  Samila,  with 
the  sun  glaring  up  from  the  sand !— however,  it  is 
a  long  time  ago  now.     I  trusted  the  baby  willingly 
to  Mrs.  Berry  and  to  Providence,  and  did  not  fret; 
my  capacity  for  worry,  I  suppose,  was  completely 
absorbed.     Mrs.    Berry's    letter,    describing    the 
child's  improvement  on  the  voyage  and  safe  ar- 
rival came,  I  remember,  the  day  on  which  John 
was  allowfd  his  first  solid  mouthful;  it  had  been  a 
long  siege.     "Poor  little  wretch !"  he  said  when  I 
read  it  aloud ;  and  after  that  Cecily  became  an  epi- 
sode. 

She  had  gone  to  my  husband's  people ;  it  was  the 
51 


A    MOTH  En    IN    INDIA 

br»it  arrangement.  Wc  were  lucky  that  it  was  pos- 
Hibic ;  BO  many  children  had  to  be  sent  to  strangers 
and  hirelings.  Since  an  unfortunate  infant  must 
be  brought  into  the  world  and  set  adrift,  the  haven 
of  its  grandmother  and  its  Aunt  Emma  and  its 
Aunt  Alice  certainly  seemed  providential.  I  had 
absolutely  no  ause  for  anxiety,  as  I  often  told 
people,  wondering  that  I  did  not  feel  a  little  all  the 
same.  Nothing,  I  knew,  could  exceed  the  consci- 
entious devotion  of  all  three  Farnham  ladies  to  the 
child.  She  would  appear  upon  their  somewhat  barren 
horizon  as  a  new  and  interesting  duty,  and  the 
small  additional  income  she  also  represented  would 
be  almost  nominal  compensation  for  the  care  she 
would  receive.  They  were  excellent  persons  of  the 
kind  that  talk  about  matins  and  vespers,  and  at- 
tend both.  They  helped  little  charities  and  gave 
little  teas,  and  wrote  little  notes,  and  made  depre- 
cating allowance  for  the  eccentricities  of  their  titled 
or  moneyed  acquaintances.  They  were  the  sub- 
dued, smiling,  unimaginatively  dressed  women  on  a 
small  definite  income  that  you  meet  at  every  rectory 
garden-party  in  the  country,  a  little  snobbish,  a 
little  priggish,  wholly  conventional,  but  apart  from 
these  weaknesses,  sound  and  simple  and  dignified, 
managing  their  two  small  servants  with  a  display 
of  the  most  exact  traditions,  and  keeping  a  some- 
what vague  and  belated  but  constant  eye  upon  the 
doings  of  their  country  as  chronicled  in  a  biweekly 
6& 


•  -:■-  '  'Z'^r-Wmg'  l^fV  '  12*  H 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

pnpcr.  They  were  oil  immensely  interested  in  roy- 
alty, and  would  read  paruRrnijlis  aloud  to  each 
other  about  how  the  Princess  Deiitrice  or  the  Princess 
Maud  had  opened  a  fancy  biuanr,  looking  rcnmrk- 
ably  well  in  plain  gray  poplin  trinnned  with  Irish 
lace— an  industry  which,  as  is  well  known,  the  Hoyal 
Family  has  set  its  heart  on  rehabilitating.  Upon 
which  Mrs.  Farnham's  comment  invariably  would 
be,  "How  thoughtful  of  them,  dear!"  and  Alice 
would  usually  say,  "Well,  if  I  were  a  princess,  I 
should  like  something  nicer  than  plain  gray  pop- 
lin." Alice,  being  the  youngest,  was  not  always 
expected  to  think  before  she  spoke.  Alice  painted 
in  water-colors,  but  Emma  was  supposed  to  have  tlic 
most  common  sense. 

They  took  turns  in  writing  to  us  with  the  great- 
est regularity  about  Cecily;  only  once,  I  think,  did 
they  miss  the  weekly  mail,  and  that  was  when  she 
threatened  diphtheria  and  they  thought  we  had 
better  be  kept  in  ignorance.  The  k:  i  and  affec- 
tionate terms  of  these  letters  never  altered  except 
with  the  facts  they  described— teething,  creeping, 
measles,  cheeks  growing  round  and  rosy,  all  were 
conveyed  in  the  same  smooth,  pat,  and  proper 
phrases,  so  absolutely  empty  of  any  glimpse  of 
the  child's  personality  that  after  the  first  few 
months  it  was  like  reading  about  a  somewhat  unin- 
teresting infant  in  a  book.  I  was  sure  Cecily  was 
not  uninteresting,  but  her  chroniclers  were.  We  used 
63 


■i^^SV- 


i' 


A    MOTH  En    IN    INDIA 

ti)  Wilde  tliroUKh  tlic  lonfji  lliiii  uliicls  ami  saw  liow 
niucli  more  satisifartory  it  would  be  when  Cecily 
coulil  write  to  ua  herself.  Mciinwhile  wc  noted  her 
weelily  progrcu  with  much  the  feeling  one  would 
huvc  about  a  far-away  little  bit  of  property  that 
wtt«  giving  no  trouble  and  coming  on  exceedingly 
well.  We  would  take  possession  of  Cecily  at  our 
convenience;  till  then,  it  was  gratifying  to  hear  of 
our  unearned  increment  in  dear  little  dimples  and 
■weet  little  curls. 

She  was  nearly  four  when  I  saw  her  again.  We 
were  home  on  three  months'  leave;  John  had  just 
got  his  first  brevet  for  doing  something  which  he 
does  not  allow  me  to  talk  about  in  the  Black  Moun- 
tain country ;  and  we  were  fearfully  pleasoj  with 
ourselves.  I  remember  that  excitement  lasted  well 
up  to  Port  Said.  As  far  as  the  Canal,  Cecily  was 
only  one  of  the  pleasures  and  interests  wc  were  go- 
ing home  to:  John's  majority  was  the  thing  that 
really  gave  savor  to  life.  But  the  first  faint  line 
of  Europe  brought  my  child  to  my  horizon;  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  way  she  kept  her  place,  holding 
out  her  little  arms  to  me,  beckoning  me  on.  Her 
four  motherless  years  brought  compunction  to  my 
heart  and  tears  to  my  eyes;  she  should  have  all 
the  compensation  that  could  be.  I  suddenly  real- 
ized how  ready  I  was — how  ready! — to  linve  her 
back.  I  rebelled  fiercely  against  John's  decision 
that  we  must  not  take  her  with  us  on  our  return 
54 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

lo  tlic  frontier;  privn'  .  '  rcKolvod  to  dinputc  it, 
ami,  if  necessary,  I  ,aw  myself  al«iuclinK  the  child 
—my  own  child.  My  days  and  nights  as  the  ship 
crept  on  were  full  of  a  lonj?  <iche  to  possess  her;  tlio 
defrauded  tenderness  of  the  lust  four  years  rose  up 
in  inc  and  sometimes  caught  at  my  throat.  I  could 
think  and  talk  and  dream  of  nothing  else.  .John 
indulged  mc  as  much  as  was  reasonable,  and  only 
once  betrayed  by  a  yawn  that  the  subj.ct  was  not 
for  him  endlessly  absorbing.  Then  I  cried  and  lie 
apologized.  "You  know,"  he  said,  "it  isn't  exactly 
the  same  thing.  I'm  not  her  mother"  At  which 
I  dried  my  tears  and  expanded,  proud  and  pacified. 
I  was  her  mother! 

Then  the  rainy  little  station  and  Alice,  all-cm- 
bracing  in  a  dump  waterj)roof,  and  the  drive  in  the 
fly,  and  John's  mother  at  the  gate  and  a  neces- 
sary pause  while  I  kissed  John's  mother.  Dear 
thing,  she  wanted  to  hold  our  hands  and  look  into 
our  faces  and  tell  us  how  little  we  had  changed 
for  all  our  hardships;  and  on  the  way  to  the  house 
she  actually  stopped  to  point  out  some  alterations 
in  the  flowcr-bordcrs.  At  last  the  drawing-room 
door  and  the  smiling  housemaid  turning  the  handle 
and  the  unforgetabic  picture  of  a  little  girl,  a  little 
girl  unlike  anything  we  had  imagined,  starting 
bravely  to  trot  across  the  room  with  the  little  speech 
that  had  been  taught  her.  Half-way  she  came ;  I 
suppose  our  regards  were  too  fixed,  too  absorbed, 
65 


H' 


A   MOTHER   IN   INDIA 

for  there  she  stopped  with  a  wail  of  terror  at  the 
strange  faces,  and  ran  straight  back  to  the  out- 
stretched arms  of  her  Aunt  Emma.     The  most  nat- 
ural thing  in  the  world,  no  doubt.     I  walked  over 
to  a  chair  opposite  with  my  hand-bag  and  umbrella 
and  sat  down— a  spectator,  aloof  and  silent.     Aunt 
Emma  fondled  and  quieted  the  child,  apologizing 
for  her  to  me,  coaxing  her  to  look  up,  but  the  little 
figure  still  shook  with  sobs,  hiding  its  face  in  the 
bosom  that  it  knew.     I  smiled  politely,  like  any 
other  stranger,  at  Emma's  deprecations,  and  sat 
impassive,  looking  at  my  alleged  baby  breaking  her 
heart  at  the  sight  of  her  mother.     It  is  not  amus- 
ing even  now  to  remember  the  anger  that  I  felt.     I 
did  not  touch  her  or  speak  to  her;  I  simply  sat  ob- 
seiving  my  alien  possession,  in  the  frock  I  had  not 
made  and  the  sash  I  had  not  chosen,  being  coaxed 
and  kissed  and  protected  and  petted  by  its  Aunt 
Emma.     Presently  I  asked  to  be  taken  to  my  room, 
and  there  I  locked  myself  in  for  two  atrocious  hours. 
Just  once  my  heart  beat  high,  when  a  tiny  knock 
came  and  a  timid,  docile  little  voice  said  that  tea  was 
ready.     But  I  heard  the  rustle  of  a  skirt,  and 
guessed  the  directing  angel  in  Aunt  Emma,  and  re- 
sponded, "Thank  you,  dear,  run  away  and  say  that 
I  am  coming,"  with  a  pleasant  visitor's  inflection 
which  I  was  able  to  sustain  for  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon. 

"She  goes  to  bed  at  seven,"  said  Emma. 
^6 


I 


A   MOTHER   IN   INDIA 


"A  very  good  hour,  I 


"Oh,  docs  she?"  said  I. 
should  think." 

"She  sleeps  in  my  room,"  said  Mrs.  Farnham. 
"We  give  her  mutton  broth  very  often,  but  sel- 
dom   stock   soup,"   said  Aunt   Emma.     "Mamma 
tliinks  it  is  too  stimulating." 
"Indeed?"  said  I,  to  all  of  it. 
They  took  me  up  to  see  her  in  her  crib,  and 
pomted  out,  as  she  lay  asleep,  that  though  she  had 
'a  general  look"  of  me,  her  features  were  distinct- 
ively Farnham. 

"Won't  you  V-ss  her?"  asked  Alice.  "You 
haven't  kissed  her  yet,  and  she  is  used  to  so  much 
affection." 

"I  don't  think  I  could  take  such  an  advantage 
of  her,"  I  said.  ^ 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  Mrs.  Farnham 
said  that  I  was  plainly  worn  out.  I  mustn't  sit  up 
to  prayers. 

If  I  had  been  given  anything  like  reasonable  time 
I  might  have  made  a  fight  for  it,  but  four  weeks— it 
took  a  month  each  way  in  those  days— was  too  ab- 
surdly little ;  I  could  do  nothing.  But  I  would  not 
stay  at  mamma's.  It  was  more  than  I  would  ask  of 
myself,  that  daily  disappointment  under  the  mask 
of  gratified  discovery,  for  long. 

I  spent  an  approving,  unnatural  week,  in  my 
farcical  character,  bridling  my  resentment  and  hid- 
ing my  mortification  with  pretty  phrases;  and  tlien 
57 


.^?^-;^: 


A   MOTHER   IN   INDIA 

I  went  up  to  town  and  drowned  my  sorrows  in  the 
summer  sales.  I  took  John  with  me.  I  may  have 
been  Cecily's  mother  in  theory,  but  I  was  John's 
wife  in  fact. 

We  went  bacit  to  the  frontier,  and  the  regiment 
saw  a  lot  of  service.  That  meant  medals  and  fun 
for  my  husband,  but  economy  and  anxiety  for  me, 
though  I  managed  to  be  al  jwed  as  close  to  the 
firing  line  as  any  woman. 

Once  the  Colonel's  wife  and  I,  sitting  in  Fort 
Samila,  actually  heard  the  rifles  of  a  punitive  ex- 
pedition cracking  on  the  other  side  of  the  river — 
that  was  a  bad  moment.  My  man  came  in  after 
fifteen  hours'  fighting,  and  went  souj'd  asleep,  sit- 
ting before  his  food  with  his  knife  and  fork  in  his 
hands.  But  service  makes  heavy  demands  besides 
those  on  your  wife's  nerves.  We  had  saved  two 
thousand  rupees,  I  remember,  against  another  run 
home,  and  it  all  went  like  powder,  in  the  Mirzai  ex- 
pedition ;  and  the  run  home  diminished  to  a  month 
in  a  boarding-house  in  the  hills. 

Meanwhile,  however,  we  had  begun  to  correspond 
with  our  daughter,  in  large  round  words  of  one 
syllable,  behind  which,  of  course,  was  plain  the  pa- 
tient guiding  hand  of  Aunt  Emma.  One  could  hear 
Aunt  Emma  suggesting  what  would  be  nice  to  say, 
trying  to  instil  a  little  pale  affection  for  the  far-ofF 
papa  and  mamma.  There  was  so  little  Cecily  and 
so  much  Emma — of  course,  it  could  not  be  other- 
S8 


!  I 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

wise— that  I  used  to  take,  I  fear,  but  a  perfunctory 
joy  in  these  letters.  When  we  went  home  again  I 
stipulated  absolutely  that  she  was  to  write  to  us 
without  any  sort  of  supervision— the  child  was  ten. 

"But  the  spelling!"  cried  Aunt  Emma,  with 
lifted  eyebrows. 

"Her  letters  aren't  exercises,"  I  was  obliged  to  re- 
tort ;  "she  will  do  the  best  she  can." 

We  found  her  a  docile  little  girl,  with  nice  man- 
ners, a  thoroughly  unobjectionable  child.  I  saw 
quite  cioarly  that  I  could  not  have  brought  her  up 
so  well;  indeed,  there  were  moments  when  I  fancied 
that  Cecily,  contrasting  me  with  her  aunts,  won- 
dered a  little  what  my  bringing  up  could  have  been 
like.  With  this  reserve  of  criticism  on  Cecily's 
part,  however,  we  got  on  very  tolerably,  largely 
because  1  found  it  impossible  to  assume  any  respon- 
sibility toward  her,  and  in  moments  of  doubt  or 
discipline  referred  her  to  her  aunts.  We  spent  a 
pleasant  summer  with  a  little  girl  in  the  house  whose 
interest  in  us  was  amusing,  and  whose  outings  it  was 
gratifying  to  arrange ;  but  when  we  went  back,  I 
had  no  desire  to  take  her  with  us.  I  thought  her 
very  much  better  where  she  was. 

Then  came  the  period  which  is  filled,  in  a  subor- 
dinate degree,  with  Cecily's  letters.  I  do  not  wish 
to  claim  more  than  I  ought ;  they  were  not  my  only 
or  even  my  principal  interest  in  life.  It  was  a  long 
period ;  it  lasted  till  she  was  twenty-one.     John  had 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 


had  promotion  in  tlie  meantime,  and  there  was 
rather  more  money,  but  he  had  earned  his  second 
brevet  with  a  bullet  through  one  lung,  and  the  doc- 
tors ordered  our  leave  to  be  spent  in  South  Africa. 
We  had  photographs,  we  knew  she  had  grown 
tall  and  athletic  and  comely,  and  the  letters  were 
always  very  creditable.  I  had  the  unusual  and 
qualified  privilege  of  watching  my  daughter's  de- 
velopment from  ten  to  twenty-one,  at  a  distance  of 
four  thousand  miles,  by  means  of  the  written  word. 
I  wrote  myself  us  provocatively  as  possible;  I 
sought  for  every  string,  but  the  vibration  that 
came  back  across  the  seas  to  me  was  always  other 
than  the  one  I  looked  for,  and  sometimes  there  was 
none.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Farnham  wrote  me  that 
Cecily  very  much  valued  my  communications. 
Once  when  I  had  described  an  unusual  excur- 
sion in  a  native  state,  I  learned  that  she  had  read 
my  letter  aloud  to  the  sewing  circle.  After  that 
I  abandoned  description,  and  confined  myself  to 
such  intimate  personal  details  as  no  sewing  circle 
could  find  amusing.  The  child's  own  letters  were 
simply  a  mirror  of  the  ideas  of  the  Farnham  ladies ; 
that  must  have  been  so,  it  was  not  altogetlier  my 
jaundiced  eye.  Alice  and  Emma  and  grandmam- 
ma paraded  the  pages  in  turn.  I  very  early  gave 
up  hope  of  discoveries  in  my  daughter,  though  as 
much  of  the  original  as  I  could  detect  was  satisfac- 
torily simple  and  sturdy.  I  found  little  things  to 
60 


A   MOTHER   IN   INDIA 

criticize,  of  course,  tendencies  to  correct;  and  by 
return  post  I  criticized  and  corrected,  but  the  dis- 
tance and  the  deliberation  seemed  to  touch  my  max- 
ims with  a  kind  of  arid  frivolity,  and  sometimes  I 
tore  them  up.  One  quick,  warm-blooded  scolding 
would  have  been  worth  a  sheaf  of  them.  My 
studied  little  phrases  could  only  inoculate  her  with 
a  dislike  for  me  without  protecting  her  from  any- 
thing under  the  sun. 

However,  I  found  she  didn't  dislike  me,  when 
John  and  I  went  home  at  last  to  bring  her  out. 
She  received  me  with  just  a  hint  of  kindness,  per- 
haps, but  on  the  whole  very  well. 


61 


Hi'       w: 


wjKmk 


CHAPTER  II 


John  was  recalled,  of  course,  before  the  end  of 
our  furlough,  which  knocked  various  things  on  the 
head;  but  that  is  the  sort  of  thing  one  learned  to 
take  with  philosophy  in  any  lengthened  term  of 
Her  Majesty's  service.  Besides,  there  is  usually 
sugar  for  the  pill ;  and  in  this  case  it  was  a  Staff 
command  bigger  than  anything  wc  expected  for 
at  least  five  years  to  come.  The  excitement  of  it 
when  it  was  explained  to  her  gave  Cecily  a  charm- 
ing color.  She  took  a  good  deal  of  interest  in  the 
General,  her  papa ;  I  think  she  had  an  idea  that  his 
distinction  would  alleviate  the  situation  in  India, 
however  it  might  present  itself.  She  accepted  that 
prospective  situation  calmly;  it  had  been  placed 
before  her  all  her  life.  There  would  always  be  a 
time  when  she  should  go  and  live  with  papa  and 
mamma  in  India,  and  so  long  as  she  was  of  an  age 
to  receive  the  idea  with  rebel  tears  she  was  assured 
that  papa  and  mamma  would  give  her  a  pony.  The 
pony  was  no  longer  added  to  the  prospect;  it  was 
absorbed  no  doubt  in  the  general  list  of  attractions 
calculated  to  reconcile  a  young  lady  to  a  parental 
roof  with  which  she  had  no  practical  acquaintance. 
At  all  events,  when  I  feared  the  embarrassment  and 


J_ 


A    MOTHER   If    INDIA 

dismay  of  a  pathetic  parting  with  darling  grand- 
mamma and  the  aunties,  and  the  sweet  cut  and  the 
dear  vicar  and  all  the  otlu  r  objects  of  affection,  I 
found  an  agreeable  unexpected  philosophy. 

I  may  add  that  while  I  anticipated  such  broken- 
hearted farewells  I  was  quite  prepared  to  take  them 
easily.  Time,  I  imagined,  had  brought  philosophy  to 
me  also,  equally  agreeable  una  equally  unexpected. 
It  was  a  Bombay  ship,  full  of  returning  Anglo- 
Indians.     I  looked  up  and  down  the  long  saloon 
tables  with  a  sense  of  relief  and  of  solace;  I  was 
again  among  my  own  people.     They  belonged  to 
Bengal  and  to  Burma,  to  Madras  and  to  the  Pun- 
jab, but  they  were  all  my  people.    I  could  pick  out 
a  score  that  I  knew  in  fact,  and  there  were  none  that 
in  imagination  I  didn't  know.    The  look  of  wider 
seas  and  skies,  the  casual  experienced  glance,  the 
touch  of  irony  and  of  tolerance,  how  well  I  knew  it 
and  how  well  I  liked  it !     Dear  old  England,  sitting 
in  our  wake,  seemed  to  hold  by  comparison  a  great 
many  soft,  unsophisticated  people,  immensely  oc- 
cupied about  very  particular  trifles.     How  difficult 
it  had  been,  all  the  summer,  to  be  interested !    These 
of  my  long  acquaintance  belonged  to  my  country's 
Executive,  acute,  alert,  with  the  marks  of  travail  on 
them.     Gladly  I  went  in  and  out  of  the  women's 
cabins  and  listened  to  the  argot  of  the  men ;  my  own 
ruling,  administering,  soldiering  little  lot. 

Cecily  looked  at  them  askance.     To  her  the  at- 
63 


rjv'i 


jt^M 


A   MOTHER    IN    INDIA 


1(1  * 


ill 


mosphcrc  was  alien,  and  I  perceived  that  gently  and 
privately  she  registered  objections.  She  cast  a 
disapproving  eye  upon  the  wife  of  a  Conservator 
of  Forests,  wlio  scanned  with  interest  a  distant 
funnel  and  laid  a  small  wager  that  it  belonged  to 
the  Messagerics  ^luritimcs.  She  looked  with  a 
straiglitoned  lip  at  the  crisply  stepping  women 
who  walked  the  deck  in  short  a'nd  rather  shabby 
skirts  with  tlieir  hands  in  their  jacket-pockets  talk- 
ing transfers  and  promotions;  and  having  got  up 
at  six  to  make  a  water-color  sketch  of  the  sunrise, 
she  came  to  me  in  profound  indignation  to  say  that 
she  had  met  a  m(»;i  in  his  pajamas;  no  doubt,  poor 
wretch,  on  his  way  to  be  shaved.  I  was  unable  to 
convince  her  that  he  was  not  expected  to  visit  the 
barber  in  all  his  clothes. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  day  she  told  mc  that  she 
wished  these  people  wouldn't  tolk  to  her;  she  didn't 
like  them.  I  had  turned  in  the  hour  we  left  the 
Chcnnel  and  had  not  left  my  berth  since,  so  possibly 
I  was  not  in  the  most  amiable  mood  to  receive  a 
douclie  of  cold  water.  "  I  must  try  to  remember, 
dear,"  I  said,  "that  you  have  been  brought  up  alto- 
gether in  the  society  of  pussies  and  vicars  and  elderly 
ladies,  and  of  course  you  miss  them.  But  you  must 
have  a  little  patience.  I  shall  be  up  to-morrow,  if 
this  beastly  sea  continues  to  go  down ;  and  then  we 
will  try  to  find  somebody  suitable  to  introduce  to 
vou." 

64 


A    MOTHER   IN    INDIA 

"Thank  you,  mamma,"  said  my  daughter,  with- 
out a  ray  of  suspicion.  Then  she  added  consider 
ingly,  "Aunt  Emma  and  Aunt  Alice  do  seem  quite 
elderly  ladies  beside  you,  and  yet  you  arc  older 
than  either  of  them,  aren't  you?  I  wonder  how 
that  is." 

It  was  so  innocent,  so  admirable,  that  I  laughed  at 
my  own  expense;  while  Cecily,  doing  her  hair,  con- 
sidered me  gravely.  "I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why 
you  laugh,  mamma,"  quoth  she;  "you  laugh  so 
often." 

Wc  had  not  to  wait  after  all  for  my  good  offices  of 
the  next  morning.  Cecily  came  down  at  ten  o'clock 
that  night  quite  happy  and  excited ;  she  had  been 
talking  to  a  bishop,  such  a  dear  bishop.  The  bishop 
had  been  showing  her  his  collection  of  photographs, 
and  she  had  promised  to  play  the  harmonium  for 
hmi  at  the  eleven-o'clock  service  in  the  morning. 
"Bless  me !"  said  I,  "is  it  Sunday.'"  It  seemed  she 
had  got  on  very  well  indeed  with  the  bishop,  who 
knew  the  married  sister,  at  Tunbridge,  of  her  very 
greatest  friend.  Cecily  herself  did  not  know  the 
married  sister,  but  that  didn't  matter — it  was  a  link. 
The  bishop  was  charming.  "Well,  my  love,"  said  I 
— I  was  teaching  myself  to  use  these  forms  of  ad- 
dress for  fear  she  would  feel  an  unkind  lack  of  them, 
but  it  was  difficult— "I  am  glad  that  somebody  from 
my  part  of  the  world  has  impressed  you  favorably 
at  last.  I  wish  wc  had  more  bishops." 
65 


A   MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

"Oh,  but  my  bishop  doesn't  belong  to  your  pnrt 
of  the  world,"  responded  my  daughter  sleepily. 
"He  is  traveling  for  his  health." 

It  was  the  most  unexpected  and  delightful  thing 
to  be  packed  into  one's  chair  next  morning  by 
Dacrcs  Tottenham.  As  I  emerged  from  the  music 
saloon  after  breakfast — Cecily  hud  stayed  below  to 
look  over  her  hymns  and  consider  with  her  bishop 
the  possibility  of  an  anthem — Dacres's  fuoc  was  the 
first  I  saw ;  it  simply  illuminated,  for  me,  that  por- 
tion of  the  deck.  I  noticed  with  pleosure  the  quick 
toss  of  the  cigar  overboard  as  he  recognized  and  bore 
down  upon  me.  We  were  immense  friends;  John 
liked  him  too.  He  was  one  of  those  people  who 
make  a  tremendous  difference ;  in  all  our  three  hun- 
dred passengers  there  could  be  no  one  like  him,  cer- 
tainly no  one  whom  I  could  be  more  glad  to  see.  We 
plunged  at  once  into  immediate  personal  affairs,  we 
would  get  at  the  heart  of  them  later.  He  gave  his 
vivid  word  to  everything  he  had  seen  and  done ;  we 
laughed  and  exclaimed  and  were  silent  in  a  concert 
of  admirable  understanding.  We  were  still  unrav- 
eling, still  demanding  and  explaining  when  the 
ship's  bell  began  to  ring  for  church,  and  almost 
simultaneously  Cecily  advanced  toward  us.  She  had 
a  proper  Sunday  hat  on,  with  flowers  under  the  brim, 
and  a  church-going  frock;  she  wore  gloves  and 
clasped  a  prayer-book.  Most  of  the  women  who 
filed  past  to  the  summons  of  the  bell  were  going  down 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

M  they  were,  in  cotton  blou.es  and  serge  skirt.,  in 
tweed  cup.  or  anything,  as  to  a  kind  of  family 
prayers.  I  knew  exactly  how  they  would  lean 
against  the  pillars  of  the  saloon  during  the  psalms. 
This  young  lady  would  be  little  less  than  a  rebuke 
to  them.  I  surveyed  her  approach;  she  positively 
walked  as  if  it  were  Sunday. 

"My  dear,"  I  said,  "how  endimanchee  yoii  look ! 
The  bishop  will  be  very  pleased  with  you.  This 
gentleman  is  Mr.  Tottenham,  who  admini^t.  rs  Her 
Majesty's  pleasure  in  parts  of  India  about  Allaha- 
bad. My  daughter,  Dacres."  She  was  certainly 
looking  very  fresh,  and  her  calm  gray  eyes  had  the 
repose  in  them  that  has  never  known  itself  to  be  dis- 
turbed about  anything.  I  wondered  whether  she 
bowed  so  distantly  also  because  it  was  Sunday,  and 
then  I  remembered  that  Dacres  was  a  young  man, 
and  that  the  Farnham  ladies  had  probably  taught 
her  that  it  was  right  to  be  very  distant  with  younc 
men.  * 

"It  is  almost  eleven,  momma." 

"Yes,  dear.     I  see  you  are  f^oing  to  church." 
'Are  you  not  coming,  n    .  ;n\a.'" 

I  was  well  wrapped  up  in  an  extremely  comfort- 
able corner.  I  had  La  Ducheaae  Bleue  uncut  in  my 
lap,  and  an  agreeable  person  to  f  ilk  to.  I  fear  that 
m  any  case  I  should  not  have  been  inclined  to  attend 
the  service,  but  there  was  something  in  my  daugh- 
ter's intonation  that  made  me  distinctly  hostile  to 
67 


A    MOTHEK    IN    INDIA 

t^ic  idea.     I  am  putting  things  down  at  they  were, 
extenuating  nothing. 
"I  think  not,  denr." 
"I've  turned  up  two  such  nice  seats." 
"Stny,  Miss  Furnhnm,  and  keep  us  in  counte- 
nance," said  Dacres,  witli  his  charming  smile.     Tlie 
sniili-    displaced    a    look    of   discreet    and    amused 
ohservation.      Dacres    had    an    eye   always    for   a 
situation,  and  this  one  was  even  newer  to  him  than 
to  me. 

"No,  no.  She  nuist  run  away  and  not  bully  her 
mamma,"  I  said.  "When  she  comes  back  we  will 
see  how  much  she  remembers  of  the  sermon ;"  and  as 
the  flat  tinkle  from  the  companion  began  to  show 
signs  of  diminishing,  Cecily,  with  one  grieved 
glance,  hastened  down. 

"You  amazing  lady  !"  said  Dacres.     "A  daughter 

— and  such  a  tall  daughter !    I  somehow  never " 

"You  knew  we  bad  one?" 

"There  was  theory  of  that  kind,  I  remember, 
about  ten  years  ago.  Since  then — excuse  me — I 
don't  think  you've  mentioned  her." 

"You  talk  as  if  she  were  a  skeleton  in  the  closet !" 
"You  didn't  talk — as  if  she  were." 
"I  think  she  was.  in  a  way,  poor  child.     IJut  the 
resurrection  day  hasn't  confounded  me  as  I  deserved. 
She's  a  very  good  girl." 

"If  you  had  asked  me  to  pick  out  your  daugh- 
ter  " 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

"She  would  have  been  the  last  you  would  indicate ! 
Quite  »o,"  I  «uid.  "Slie  i»  hite  her  l'uther'»  people. 
I  can't  help  that." 

"I  •iiiouldn'l  tIJnk  you  would  if  you  coiilil," 
P.i.iY,  irniftrkfil  kIs-  ntly ;  but  the  »eii  uir,  p.rlmps, 
■■ti.il)li()    „ic   to   di;{c.-i    his   thoughtlessness   with   u 

"Ni-  "  I  111(1,  -I  lun  just  ns  well  jileiised.  I  think 
»  ivsi  iihl.:ii'  ■  to  me  V  ould  confuse  me,  often." 

'i'here  '.i  IS  II  liiu'e  of  scrutiny  in  Dacres's  glance. 
"Doii't  ;.)M  find  \,)urself  in  sympathy  with  her.*" 
he  asked. 

"My  dear  boy,  I  have  seen  her  jii^t  iw..x 
twenty-one  years!  You  sec,  I've  ,  -.  i  vs  I  wi 
John." 

"But  between  mother  and  dnir^lit  r  S  ii,v  • 
old-fashioned,  h  .t  I  had  an  idc-i  :^ini  t;.vi  ■  ■,,•.■, 
instinct  that  might  be  depended  on.' 

"I  am  depending  on  it,"  I  said,  and  Jet  i;  v  c,,v 
follow  the  little  blue  waves  that  chased  past  the  hand- 
rail. "We  arc  making  very  good  speed,  aren't  wc? 
Thirty-five  knots  since  last  night  at  ten.  Arc  you 
in  the  sweep.''" 

"I  never  bet  on  the  way  out — can't  afford  it.  Am 
I  old-fasl.ic  vd.'"  he  insisted. 

"Probably.  Men  arc  very  slow  in  changing  their 
philosophy  aojut  women.  I  fancy  their  idea  of  the 
maternal  re.alion  is  firmest  fixed  of  all." 

"Wc  sec  it  a  beatitude !"  he  cried. 
69 


in 
to 


eves 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

"I  know,"  I  said  wearily,  "and  you  nover  modify 
the  view." 

Dacres  contemplated  the  portion  of  the  deck  that 
lay  between  us.  His  eyes  were  discreetly  lowered, 
but  I  saw  embarrassment  and  speculation  and  a  hint 
of  criticism  in  them. 

"Tell  me  more  about  it,"  said  he. 
"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake  don't  be  sympathetic!" 
I  exclaimed.     "Lend  me  a  little  philosophy  instead. 
There  is  nothing  to  tell.     There  she  is  and  there  I 
am,  in  the  most  intimate  relation  in  the  world,  con- 
stituted when  she  is  twenty-one  and  I  am  forty." 
I>i.res  started  slightly  at  the  ominous  word;  so 
littlo  do  men  realize  that  the  women  they  like  can 
ever  pass  out  of  the  constated  years  of  attraction. 
I  find  the  young  lady  vt-y  tolerable,  very  creditable, 
very  nice.     I  find  the  relation  atrocious.    There  you 
have  it.     I  would  like  to  break  the  relation  into 
pieces,"  I  went  on  recklessly,  "and  throw  it  into  the 
sea.     Such  things  should  be  tempered  to  one.     I 
should  feel  it  much  less  if  she  occupied  another 
cabm,  and  would  consent  to  call  me  Elizabeth  or 
Jane.     It  is  not  as  if  I  had  been  her  mother  al- 
ways.    One  grows  fastidious  at  forty— new  inti- 
macies are  only  possible  then  on  a  basis  of  tempera- 
ment  "  ^ 

I  paused ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  making  ex- 
cuses, and  I  had  not  the  least  desire  in  the  world 
to  do  that. 

70 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

"How  awfully  rough  on  the  girl!"  said  Dacrcs 
1  ottenham. 

"That  consideration  has  also  occurred  to  me  " 
I  said  candidly,  "though  I  have  perhaps  been  even 
more  struck  by  its  converse." 

"you  had  no  earthly  business  to  be  her  mother," 
said  my  friend,  with  irritation. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders-what  would  you  have 
done?— and  opened  U  Duchcssc  Blcue. 


71 


CHAPTER  III 


r    , 

J  ',|:J 


Mrs.  Mohcan,  wife  of  a  judge  of  the  High 
Court  of  Bombay,  and  I  sat  amidships  on  the  cool 
side  in  the  Suez  Canal.  She  was  outlining  "  Soiled 
Linen  "  in  chain-stitch  on  a  green  canvas  bag;  I 
was  admiring  the  Egyptian  sands.  '  How  charm- 
ing," said  I,  "  is  this  solitary  desert  in  tlie  endless 
oasis  we  are  compelled  to  cross !  " 

"  Oasis  in  the  desert,  you  mean,"  said  .Irs.  Mor- 
gan ;  "  I  haven't  noticed  any,  but  I  hrtpp(  .k  d  to  look 
up  this  morning  as  I  was  puttitij^  on  m^  stix+.dg*', 
and  I  saw  through  my  port-liolc  the  ni-*t  lovfl/ 
mirage." 

I  had  been  at  «cho<)l  with  Mrs.  Jlorgan  more 
than  twenty  years  agone,  but  slie  had  come  U)  tlie 
special  cnjoyiiHfit  of  the  dignj^ies  of  life  while  i 
still  liked  doing  things.  Mrs.  Morgan  wa;,  tlie  kind 
of  person  to  make  one  realize  how  distressing  a 
medium  is  middle  ag( ,  Coiitenjplating  her  pre- 
cipitous lap,  to  which  ooiiventional  attitudes  were 
certainly  more  becoming,  I  crossed  my  own  knees 
with  energy,  luA  once  more  resolved  to  be  young 
until  I  was  old. 

"  How  perfectly  delightful  for  you  to  be  taking 
Cecily  out !  "  said  Airs.  Morgan  placidly. 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

"  Isn't  it?  "  I  responded,  watching  the  gliding 
sands. 

"  But  she  was  born  in  sixty-nine— that  makes 
her  twenty-one.     Quite  time,  I  should  say." 

"  Oh,  we  couldn't  put  it  ofF  any  longer.  I  mean 
^her  father  has  such  a  horror  of  early  debuts.  He 
simply  would  not  hear  of  her  coming  before." 

"  Doesn't  want  her  to  marry  in  India,  I  dare  say 
—the  only  one,"  purred  Mrs.  Morgan. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  isn't  such  a  bad  place. 
I^  was  brought  out  there  to  marry,  and  I  married. 
I've  found  it  very  satisfactory." 

"  You  always  did  say  exactly  what  you  thought, 
Helena,"  .,»iH  Mrs.  Morgan  excusingly. 

•'  I  haven't  much  patience  with  people  who  bring 
their  daughters  out  to  give  them  the  chance  they 
never  would  have  in  England,  and  then  go  about 
devoutly  hoping  they  won't  marry  in  India,"  I  said. 
"  f  «hall  be  very  pleased  if  Cecily  does  as  well  as  your 
girlii  imve  done." 

"  \Ury  in  the  Indian  Civil  and  Jessie  in  the  Im- 
perial Service  Troops,"  sighed  Mrs.  Morgan  com- 
placently. "And  both,  my  dear,  within  a  year. 
It  uas  a  blow." 

"  Oh,  it  must  have  been !  "  I  said  civilly. 
Tlicre  was  no  use  in  bandying  words  with  Emily 
Morgiin. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  like  the  satis- 
faction and  pleasure  one  takes  in  one's  daughters." 

73 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 


Mrs.  Morgan  w*nt  on  limpidly.  "  And  one  can  be 
in  such  cU>/f  sympathy  with  one's  girls.  1  have 
never  regretted  having  no  sons." 

"  Dear  me,  yes.  To  watch  oneself  growing  up 
again — call  back  the  lovely  April  of  one's  prime, 
etcetera — to  read  every  thought  and  anticipate 
every  wish — there  is  no  more  golden  privilege  in 
life,  dear  Emily.  Such  a  direct  and  natural  avenue 
for  affection,  such  a  wide  field  for  interest  I  " 

I  paused,  lost  in  the  volume  of  my  admirable 
sentiments. 

"  How  beautifully  you  talk,  Helena !  I  wish  I 
had  the  gift." 

"  It  doesn't  mean  very  much,"  I  said  truthfully. 

"  Oh,  I  think  it's  everything !  And  how  com- 
panionable a  girl  is !  I  quite  envy  you,  this  season, 
having  Cecily  constantly  with  you  and  taking  her 
about  everywhere.  Something  quite  new  for  you, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Absolutely,"  said  I ;  "I  am  looking  forward 
to  it  immensely.  But  it  is  likely  she  will  make  her 
own  friends,  don't  you  think?  "  I  added  anxiously. 

"  Hardly  the  first  season.  My  girls  didn't.  I 
was  practically  their  only  intimate  for  months. 
Don't  be  afraid ;  you  won't  be  obliged  to  go  shares 
in  CVrily  with  anybody  for  a  good  long  while," 
added  Mrs.  Morgan  kindly.  "  I  know  just  how 
you  feel  about  that." 

The  muddy  water  of  the  Ditch  chafed  up  from 
74 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 


under  us  against  its  banks  with  a  smell  that  enabled 
iiic  to  hide  the  emotions  .Mrs.  Morgan  evoked  be- 
hind my  handlicrcliiof.  The  pale  desert  was  pic- 
torial with  tlie  drifting,  dnpening  purple  shadows 
of  clouds,  and  in  the  midst  a  blue  glimmer  of  the 
BitttT  Lakes,  ■»  ith  a  white  sail  on  them.  A  little 
frantic  Arab  boy  ran  aloni.'  '•  keeping  p:ico  with 
fhc  sliii).  Except  for  the  smell,  it  was  like  a  dream, 
we  moved  so  quietly;  on,  gently  on  and  on  bLtwccn 
t  he  ridgy  clay  banks  and  the  rows  of  piles.  Peace 
was  on  the  ship;  you  could  hear  what  the  Fourth  in 
his  white  ducks  said  to  the  quartermaster  in  his  blue 
doninis ;  you  could  count  the  strokes  of  the  electric 
bell  in  the  wheel-house ;  peace  was  on  the  ship  as  she 
pushed  on,  an  evt  r-venturing,  double-funneled  im- 
pertinence, through  the  sands  of  the  ages.  My  eyes 
wandered  along  a  plank-line  in  the  deck  till  they 
were  arrested  by  a  petticoat  I  knew,  when  thicy  re- 
turned of  their  own  acrord.  I  seemed  to  be  aiways 
seeing  that  petticoat. 

"  I  think,"  resumed  Mrs.  Morgan,  ^hose  giam  o 
had  wandered  in  the  same  direction,  "  that  Cecily  is 
a  very  fine  type  of  our  English  girls.  With  those 
dark  gray  eyes,  a  little  prominent  possibly,  and  that 
good  color — it's  rather  high  now  perhaps,  but  she 
will  lose  quite  enough  of  it  in  India — and  those 
regular  features,  she  would  make  a  splendid  Britan- 
nia. Do  you  know,  I  fancy  she  nmst  have  a  great 
deal  of  character.  Has  she.''" 
8  76 


t 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 


"  Any  amount.  And  all  of  it  good,"  I  re- 
■ponded,  with  private  dejection. 

"  No  faults  at  all?  "  chaffed  Mrs.  Morgan. 

I  shook  my  head.  "  Nothing,"  I  said  sadly, 
"  that  I  can  put  my  finger  on.  But  I  hope  to  dis- 
cover a  few  later.     The  sun  may  bring  them  out." 

"  Like  freckles.  Well,  you  are  a  lucky  woman. 
Mine  had  plenty,  I  assure  you.  Untidiness  was  no 
name  for  Jessie,  and  SInry — I'm  torry  to  say  that 
Mary  sometimes  fibbed." 

"  How  lovable  of  her !  Cecily's  neatness  is  a 
painful  example  to  me,  and  I  don't  believe  she  would 
tell  a  fib  to  save  my  life." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Morgan,  as  the  lunch-bell 
rang  and  she  gathered  her  occupation  into  her  work- 
basket,  "  who  is  that  talking  to  her?  " 

"  Oh,  an  old  friend,"  I  replied  easily ;  "  Dacres 
Tottenham,  a  dear  fellow,  and  most  bencvulent.  He 
is  trying  on  my  behalf  to  reconcile  her  to  the  life 
she'll  have  to  lead  in  India." 

"  She  won't  need  much  reconciling,  if  she's  like 
most  girls,"  observed  Mrs.  Morgan,  "  but  he  seems 
to  be  trying  very  hard." 

That  was  quite  the  way  I  took  it — on  my  behalf 
— for  several  days.  When  people  have  understood 
you  very  adequately  for  ten  years  you  do  not  expect 
them  to  boggle  at  any  problem  you  may  present 
at  the  end  of  the  decade.  I  thought  Dacres  was 
moved  by  a  fine  sense  of  compassion.  I  thought 
76 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

that  with  his  admirable  perception  lie  had  put  a 
finger  on  the  Httle  comedy  of  f ruitf ulness  in  my  life 
that  laughed  so  bitterly  at  the  tragedy  of  the  barren 
woman,  and  was  attempting,  by  delicate  manipula- 
tion, to  make  it  easier.     I  really  thought  so.    Then 
I  observed  that  myself  had  preposterously  deceived 
me,  that  it  wasn't  like  that  at  all.     When  Mr.  Tot- 
tenham joined  us,  Cecily  and  me,  I  saw  that  he 
listened  more  than  he  talked,  with  an  car  specially 
cocked  to  register  any  small  irony  which  might  ap- 
pear in  my  remarks  to  my  daughter.     Naturally  he 
registered  more  than  there  were,  to  make  up  perhaps 
for  dear  Cecily's  obviously  not  registering  any.     I 
could  see,  too,  that  he  was  suspicious  of  any  flavor 
of  kindness ;   finally,  to  avoid  the  strictures  of  his 
upper  lip,  which  really,  dear  fellow,  began  to  bore 
me,  I  talked  exclusively  about  the  distant  sails  and 
the  Red  Sea  littoral.     When  he  no  longer  joined  us 
as  we  sat  or  walked  together,  I  perceived  that  his 
hostility  was  fixed  and  his  parti  pris.     He  was  brim- 
ful of  compassion,  but  it  was  all  for  Cecily,  none  for 
the  situation  or  for  me.      (She  would   have  mar- 
veled, placidly,  why  he  pitied  her.    I  am  glad  I  can 
say  that.)     The  primitive  man  in  him  rose  up  as 
Pope  of  nature  and  excommunicated  mc  as  a  crea- 
ture recusant  to  her  functions.     Then  deliberately 
Dacrcs  undertook  an  office  of  consolation ;  and  I  fell 
to  wondering,  while  Mrs.  Morgan  spoke  her  convic- 
tions plainly  out,  how  far  an  impulse  of  reparation 
77 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

for  a  misfortune  with  which  ho  had  nothing  to  do 
might  carry  a  man. 

I  began  to  watch  the  affair  with  an  interest 
which  even  to  mc  seemed  queer.  It  was  not  de- 
tached, but  it  was  semi-dotaclicd,  and,  of  course,  on 
the  side  for  which  I  seem,  in  this  history,  to  be  per- 
petually apologizing.  With  certain  limitations  it 
didn't  matter  an  atom  whom  Cecily  married.  So 
that  he  was  sound  and  decent,  with  reasonable  pros- 
pects, her  simple  requirements  and  ours  for  her 
would  be  quite  met.  There  was  the  ghost  of  a  con- 
solation in  that ;  one  needn't  be  anxious  or  exacting. 

I  could  predict  with  a  certain  amount  of  confi- 
dence that  in  her  first  season  she  would  probably 
receive  three  or  four  proposals,  any  one  of  which  she 
might  accept  with  as  mucfi  propriety  and  satisfac- 
tion as  any  other  one.  For  Cecily  it  was  so  simple; 
prearranged  by  nature  like  her  digestion,  one  could 
not  see  any  logical  basis  for  difficulties.  A  nice  up- 
standing flapper,  a  dashing  Bengal  Lancer — oh,  I 
coiiid  think  of  hiilf  a  dozen  types  that  would  answer 
excelientiy.  She  was  rhe  kind  of  young  person,  and 
that  was  the  sumaning  vrp  of  it,  to  marry  a  type  and 
be  typically  happy.  I  hoped  and  expected  that  she 
would.     But  Dncres! 

Dacres  should  exercise  tli>  greatest  possible  dis- 
cretion. He  was  not  a  person  who  could  throw  tlic 
dice  indifferently  with  fate.  He  could  respond  to  ^;o 
much,  and  he  would  inevitably,  sooner  or  later,  de- 
78 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

mand  so  much  rcsjmnse !  He  was  governed  by  a 
preposterously  exacting  liniperanicnt,  and  he  wore 
his  ncr>es  outside.  And  what  vision  he  had !  How 
he  explored  the  world  lie  lived  in  and  drew  out  of  it 
all  there  was,  all  there  was!  1  could  see  him  in  the 
years  to  come  ranging  alone  the  fields  that  were 
sweet  and  the  horizons  that  lifted  for  him,  and  ever 
returning  to  pace  the  connnon  dusty  mortal  road  by 
the  side  of  a  purblind  wife.  On  general  principles, 
as  a  case  to  point  at,  it  would  be  a  conspicuous  pity. 
Nor  would  it  lack  the  aspect  of  a  particular,  n  per- 
sonal misfortune.  Dacres  was  occupied  in  quite  the 
natural  normal  degree  with  his  ehamiing  self;  he 
would  pass  his  misery  on,  and  who  would  deserve  to 
escape  it  less  than  his  mother-in-law? 

I  listened  to  Eniiy  Morgan,  who  gleaned  in  the 
ship  more  information  about  Dacres  Tottenliani's 
people,  pay,  and  prospects  than  I  had  ev(raoi;i,inii, 
and  I  kej)t  an  eye  upon  the  pair  which  was,  i  tin'  i  ■  red 
myself,  quite  maternal.  I  watched  then,  wiiiijut 
acute  anxiety,  deploring  the  threatening  c:s;  uv 
but  hardly  nearer  to  it  than  one  is  in  the  stalls  trj  '!;e 
stage.  My  moments  of  real  concern  for  Daoros 
were  mingled  more  with  anger  than  with  sorrow — it 
seemed  inexcusable  that  he,  with  his  infallible  divin- 
ing-rod for  temperament,  should  be  on  the  point  of 
making  such  an  ass  of  himself.  Though  I  talk  of 
the  stage  there  was  nothing  at  all  dramatic  to  reward 
my  attention,  mine  and  Emily  Morgan's.  To  my 
79 


A    MOTHER   IN    INDIA 

imagination,  excited  by  its  idea  of  whul  Dncros  Tot- 
tenham's courtship  ought  to  be,  the  attentions  he 
poid  to  Cecily  were  most  humdrum.  He  threw  rings 
into  buckets  with  her— she  was  good  at  that — and 
quoits  upon  the  "  bull  "  board  ;  he  found  her  chair 
after  the  decks  were  swabbed  in  the  morning  and 
established  her  in  it ;  he  paced  the  deck  with  her  at 
convenient  times  and  seasons.  They  were  humdrum, 
but  they  were  constant  and  cumulative.  Cecily  took 
them  with  an  even  breath  that  perfectly  matched. 
There  was  hardly  anything,  on  her  part,  to  note— a 
httle  discreet  observation  of  his  comings  and  goings, 
eyes  scarcely  lifted  from  her  book,  and  later  just  a 
hint  of  proprietorship,  as  the  evening  she  came  up  to 
me  on  deck,  our  first  night  in  the  Indian  Ocean.  I 
was  lying  in  my  long  chair  looking  at  the  thick,  low 
stars  and  thinking  it  was  a  long  time  since  I  had 
seen  John. 

"  Dearest  mamma,  out  here  and  nothing  over 
your  shoulders!  You  are  imprudent.  Where  is 
your  wrap?  Mr.  Tottenham,  will  you  please  fetch 
mamma's  wrap  for  her.'  " 

"If  mamma  so  instructs  nic,"  he  said  au- 
daciously. 

"  Do  as  Cecily  tells  you,"  I  laughed,  and  ho  went 
and  did  it,  while  I  by  the  light  of  a  quartermaster's 
lantern  distinctly  saw  my  daughter  blush. 

Another  time,  when  Cecily  came  down  to  undrtss, 
she  bent  over  me  as  I  lay  in  the  lower  berth 
80 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

with  unusual  solicitude.     I  had  bcm  dozing,  and  I 
jumped. 

"  What  is  it,  child?  »  I  said.  "Is  the  ship  on 
fire? "  * 

"  No,  niainniB,  the  sliip  is  not  on  fire.  Tin  re  is 
noH.inK  »t<'i>K-  I'm  so  sorry  I  shirtled  you.  But 
Mr.  Tottenham  has  been  tollinjr  mo  all  about  what 
you  did  for  the  soldiers  th,  lime  plaRuc  broke  out  in 
the  lines  at  Mian-Mir.  I  think  it  was  splendid, 
mamma,  and  so  does  he." 

"  Oh,  Lord!"  1  groaned.     '•  Good  night." 


81 


MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION    TEST   tHA«T 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No,  2] 


1.0    Jfis  I 

I  £r  III  2£ 


2.5 
2.2 


I.I 


\m  i  u 


m 

6 


A     APPLIED  IK/HGE     In 


1653   East    Main   Sire 
Rochester,    New    York  U 

(716)   482  -  0300  -  Phonf 
(716)   288  -  5989  -  Ta, 


••"^^^siipwiiL: 


CHAPTER    IV 

It  remained  in  my  mind,  that  little  thing  that 
Dacres  had  taken  the  trouble  to  tell  my  daughter ; 
I  thought  about  it  a  good  deal.  It  seemed  to  me  the 
most  serious  and  convincing  circumstances  that  had 
yet  offered  itself  to  my  consideration.  Dacres  was 
no  longer  content  to  bring  solace  and  support  to  the 
more  appealing  figure  of  the  situation ;  he  must  set 
to  work,  bless  him !  to  improve  the  situation  itself. 
He  must  try  to  induce  Miss  Farnham,  by  telling  her 
everything  he  could  remember  to  my  credit,  to  think 
as  well  of  her  mother  as  possible,  in  spite  of  the 
strange  and  secret  blows  which  that  mother  might  be 
supposed  to  sit  up  at  night  to  deliver  to  her.  Cecily 
thought  very  well  of  me  already ;  indeed,  with 
private  reservations  as  to  my  manners  and — no,  not 
my  morals,  I  believe  I  exceeded  her  expectations  of 
what  a  perfectly  new  and  untrained  mother  would  be 
likely  to  prove.  It  was  my  theory  that  she  found  me 
all  she  could  understand  me  to  be.  The  maternal 
virtues  of  the  outside  were  certainly  mine;  I  put 
them  on  with  care  every  morning  and  wore  them  with 
patience  all  day.  Dacres,  I  assured  myself,  must 
have  allowed  his  preconception  to  lead  him  absurdly 
by  the  nose  not  to  see  that  the  girl  was  satisfied,  that 
82 


/V#rj.W 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

my  impatience,  my  impotence,  did  not  at  ull  make 
her  miserable.  Evidently,  however,  he  had  created 
our  relations  differently ;  evide.itly  he  had  set  him- 
self to  their  amelioration.  There  was  portent  in  it ; 
things  seemed  to  be  closing  in.  I  bit  off  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  of  wooden  pen-handle  in  considering 
whether  or  not  I  should  mention  it  in  my  letter  to 
John,  and  decided  that  it  would  be  better  just  per- 
haps to  drop  a  hint.  Though  I  could  not  expect 
John  to  receive  it  with  any  sort  of  perturbation. 
Men  are  different;  he  would  probably  think  Totten- 
ham well  enough  able  to  look  after  himself. 

I  had  embarked  on  my  letter,  there  at  the  end  of 
a  corner-table  of  the  saloon,  when  I  saw  Dacres 
saunter  through.  He  wore  a  very  conscious  and 
elaborately  purposeless  air;  and  it  jumped  with  my 
mood  that  he  had  nothing  less  than  the  crisis  of  his 
life  in  his  pocket,  and  was  looking  for  me.  As  he  ad- 
vanced toward  me  between  the  long  tables  doubt  left 
me  and  alarm  assailed  me.  "  I'm  glad  to  find  you  in 
a  quiet  corner,"  said  he,  seating  himself,  and  con- 
firmed my  worst  anticipations. 

"  I'm  writing  to  John,"  I  said,  and  again  ap- 
plied myself  to  my  pen-handle.  It  is  a  trick  Cecily 
has  since  done  her  best  in  vain  to  cure  me  of. 

"  I  am  going  to  interrupt  you,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  not  had  an  opportunity  of  talking  to  you  for 
some  time." 

"  I  like  that !  "  I  exclaimed  derisively, 
83 


H 


•i 


m-     'W 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

"  And  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  am  very  much 
charmed  with  Cecily." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  am  not  going  to  gratify  you 
by  saying  anything  against  her." 

"  You  don't  deserve  her,  you  know." 

"  I  won't  dispute  that.  But,  if  you  don't  mind 
—I'm  not  sure  that  I'll  stand  being  abused,  dear 
boy." 

"  I  quite  see  it  isn't  any  use.  Though  one  spoke 
with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels— — " 

"  And  had  not  charity,"  I  continued  for  him. 
"  Precisely.  I  won't  go  on,  but  your  quotation  is 
very  apt." 

"  I  so  bow  down  before  her  simplicity.  It 
makes  a  wide  and  beautiful  margin  for  the  rest  of 
her  character.  She  is  a  girl  Ruskin  would  have 
loved." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  I.     "  He  did  seem  fond  of  the 
simple  type,  didn't  he.'  " 

"  Her  mind  is  so  clear,  so  transparent.  The 
motive  spring  of  everything  she  says  and  does  is  so 
direct.  Don't  you  find  you  can  most  completely  de- 
pend upon  her.'  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  said ;  "certainly.  I  nearly  always 
know  what  she  is  going  to  say  before  she  says  it,  and 
under  given  circumstances  I  can  tell  precisely  what 
she  will  do." 

"  I  fancy  her  sense  of  duty  is  very  beautifully 
developed." 

84 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

"  It  is,"  I  said.  "  There  is  hardly  a  day  when  I 
do  not  come  in  contact  with  it." 

"  Well,  that  is  surely  a  good  thing.  And  I  find 
that  calm  poise  of  hers  very  restful." 

"  I  would  not  liave  believed  that  so  many  virtues 
could  reside  in  one  young  lady,"  I  said,  taking 
refuge  in  flippancy,  "  and  to  think  that  she  should 
be  my  daughter !  " 

"  As  I  believe  you  know,  that  seems  to  me  rather 
a  cruel  stroke  of  destiny,  Mrs.  Farnham." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know!  You  have  a  constructive 
imagination,  Dacres.  You  don't  seem  to  see  that 
the  girl  is  protected  by  her  limitations,  like  a  tortoise. 
She  lives  within  them  quite  secure  and  happy  and 
content.  How  determined  you  are  to  be  sorry  for 
her!"  ^ 

Mr.  Tottenham  looked  at  the  end  of  this  lively 
exchange  as  though  he  sought  for  a  polite  way  of 
conveying  to  me  that  I  rather  was  the  limited  person. 
He  looVod  as  if  he  wished  he  could  say  things.  The 
first  i.  ..m  would  be,  I  saw,  that  he  had  quite  a 
difFeren.  ct^nception  of  Cecily,  that  it  was  illumi- 
nated by  many  trifles,  nuances  of  feeling  and  ex- 
pression, which  he  had  noticed  in  his  talks  with  her 
whenever  they  had  skirted  the  subject  of  her  adop- 
tion by  her  mother.  He  knew  her,  he  was  longing  to 
say,  better  than  I  did;  when  it  would  have  been 
natural  to  reply  that  one  could  not  hope  to  compete 
in  such  a  direction  with  an  intelligent  young  man, 
85 


A   MOTHER    IN   INDIA 

and  wc  should  at  once  have  been  upon  delicate  and 
difficult  ground.  So  it  was  as  well  perhaps  that  he 
kept  silence  until  he  said,  as  he  had  conic  prepared  to 
say,  "  Well,  I  want  to  put  that  beyond  a  doubt — 
her  happiness — if  I'm  good  enough.  I  want  her, 
please,  and  I  only  hope  tlint  she  will  be  half  as  will- 
ing to  conic  as  you  are  likely  to  be  to  let  her  go." 

It  was  a  shock  when  it  came,  plump,  like  tliat ; 
and  I  was  horrified  to  feel  how  completely  every 
other  consideration  was  lost  for  the  instant  in  the 
immense  relief  that  it  prefigured.  To  be  my  whole 
complete  self  again,  without  the  feeling  that  a  frac- 
tion of  me  was  masquerading  about  in  Cecily !  To 
be  freed  at  once,  or  almost,  from  an  exacting  con- 
dition ind  an  impossible  ideal !  "  Oh ! "  I  ex- 
claimed, and  my  eyes  positively  filled.  "  You  are 
good,  Dacres,  but  I  couldn't  let  you  do  that." 

His  undisguised  stare  brought  mc  back  to  a  sense 
of  the  proportion  of  thit.gs.  I  saw  that  in  the  com- 
bination of  influences  that  had  brought  Mr.  Totten- 
ham to  the  point  of  proposing  to  marry  my  daughter 
-""sideration  for  mc,  if  it  had  a  place,  would  be 
fantastic.  Inwardly  I  laughed  at  the  egotism  of 
raw  nerves  that  had  conjured  it  up,  even  for  an  in- 
stant, as  a  reason  for  gratitude.  The  situation  was 
not  so  peculiar,  rot  so  interesting,  as  that.  But  I 
answered  his  stare  with  a  smile;  what  I  had  said 
might  very  well  stand. 

"  Do  you  imagine,"  he  said,  seeing  that  I  did  not 
86 


Lii: 


A    MOT'IKR    IN    INDIA 

mean  to  amplify  it,  "  that  I  want  to  nmrrj-  her  out 
of  any  sort  of  g-oo Jncss?  " 

"  Benevolence  is  your  weakness,  Dacrcs." 
"  I  see.     You  think  one's  motive  is  to  withdraw 
her  from  a  relation  which  ought  to  be  the  most 
natural  in  the  world,  but  which  is,  in  her  particular 
and  painful  case,  the  most  equivocal." 

"Well,  come,"  I  remonstrated.  "You  have 
dropped  one  or  two  things,  you  know,  in  the  heat  of 
your  indignation,  not  badly  calculated  to  give  one 
that  idea.  The  eloquent  statement  you  have  just 
made,  for  instance— it  carries  all  the  patness  of  old 
conviction.     How  often  have  you  rehearsed  it?  " 

I  am  a  fairly  long-sufFering  person,  but  I  began 
to  feel  a  little  annoyed  with  my  would-be  son-in-law. 
If  the  relation  were  achieved  it  would  give  him  no 
prescriptive  right  to  bully  me;  and  we  were  still  in 
very  early  anticipation  of  that. 

"Ah!"  he  said  disarmingly.  "Don't  let  us 
quarrel.  I'm  sorry  you  think  that ;  because  it  isn't 
likely  to  bring  your  favor  to  my  project,  and  I  want 
you  friendly  and  helpful.  Oh,  confound  it!"  he 
exclaimed,  with  sudden  temper.  "  You  ought  to  be. 
I  don't  understand  this  aloofness.  I  half  suspect  it's 
pose.  You  undervalue  Cecily— well,  you  have  no 
business  to  undervalue  me.  You  know  me  better 
than  anybody  in  the  world.  Now  arc  you  going  to 
help  me  to  marry  your  daughter?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  I  said  slowly,  after  a  mo- 
87 


^^      i^'^ 


;tt 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

mcnt's  silence,  which  he  sat  through  like  a  mutinous 
schoolboy.  "  I  might  tell  you  that  I  don't  care  a 
button  whom  you  marry,  but  that  would  not  be  true. 
I  do  care  more  or  less.  As  you  say,  I  know  you 
pretty  well.  I'd  a  little  rather  you  didn't  make  a 
mess  of  it ;  and  if  you  must  I  should  distinctly  pre- 
fer not  to  have  the  spectacle  under  my  nose  for  the 
rest  of  my  life.  I  can't  hinder  you,  but  I  won't 
help  you." 

"  And  what  possesses  you  to  imagine  that  in 
marrying  Cecily  I  should  make  a  mess  of  it? 
Shouldn't  your  first  consideration  be  whether  >he 
would?" 

"  Perhaps  it  should,  but,  you  see,  it  isn't.  Cecily 
would  be  happy  with  anybody  who  made  her  com- 
fortable. You  would  ask  a  good  deal  more  tlian 
that,  you  know." 

Dacres,  at  this,  took  me  up  promptly.  Life,  he 
said,  the  heart  of  life,  had  particularly  little  to  say 
to  temperament.  By  the  heart  of  life  I  suppose  he 
meant  married  love.  He  explained  tliat  its  roots 
asked  other  sustenance,  and  that  it  throve  best  of 
all  on  simple  elemental  goodness.  So  long  as  a  man 
sought  in  women  mere  casual  companionship,  per- 
haps the  most  exquisite  thing  to  be  experienced  was 
the  stimulus  of  some  spiritual  feminine  counterpart ; 
but  when  he  desired  of  one  woman  that  she  should 
be  always  and  intimately  with  him,  the  background 
of  his  lifcj  the  mother  of  his  children,  he  was  better 
88 


'11 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

advised  to  avoid  nerves  and  sensibilities,  and  trv  for 
the  repose  of  the  common-tl.e   uncommon-do- 
mesfc  virtues.     Ah.  he  said,  they  were  sweet,  like 
lavender.     (Already,  I  told  him,  he  smelkd  the 
housekeeper's  linen-chest. )    But  I  did  not  interrupt 
him  much;   I  couldn't,  he  was  too  absorbed.     To 
temperamental   pairing,  he  declared,   the   century 
owed  its  breed  of  decadents.     I  asked  him  if  he  had 
ever  really  recognized  one;  and  he  retorted  that  if 
he  hadn't  he  didn't  wish  to  make  a  beginning  in  his 
own  family.     In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  repudiated 
the  theories  of  a  lifetime,  a  gratifying  triumph  for 
simple   elemental   goodness.      Having   denied   the 
value  of  the  subtler  pretensions  to  charm  in  woman 
as  you  marry  her,  he  went  artlessly  on  to  endow 
Cecily  with  as  many  of  them  as  could  possibly  be  de- 
sirable.    He  actually  persuaded  himself  to  say  that 
It  was  lovely  to  see  the  reflections  of  life  in  her  tran- 
quil spirit;  and  when  I  looked  at  him  incredulously 
he  grew  angry,  and  hinted  that  Cecily's  sensitiveness 
to  reflections  and  other  things  might  be  a  trifle  be- 
yond her  mother's  ken.     "  She  responds  instantly, 
intimately,  to  the  beautiful  everywhere,"  he  de- 
clared. 

"  Aren't  the  opportunities  of  life  on  board  ship 
rather  limited  to  demonstrate  that .'  "  I  inquired.  "  I 
know— you  mean  sunsets.  Cecily  is  very  fond  of 
sunsets.  She  is  always  asking  me  to  come  and  look 
at  them." 

89 


}:z^,^^m  r 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

"  I  was  thinking;  of  Inst  n  !«•>''»  "unscl,"  lie  con- 
fessed.    "  We  looked  (it  it  toRetlicr." 

"  Wlint  did  she  say?  "  I  asked  idly. 

"  Notliin^  very  much.  That's  just  the  point. 
Another  girl  would  have  ruvcd  and  gushed." 

"  Oh,  well,  Cecily  never  docs  that,"  I  responded. 
"  Nevertheless  she  is  n  very  ordinary  human  instru- 
ment. I  hope  I  shall  have  no  temptation  ten  years 
hence  to  rer.'ind  you  that  I  warned  you  of  her 
quality." 

"  I  wish,  not  in  the  least  for  my  own  profit,  for  I 
am  well  convinced  already,  but  simply  to  win  your 
cordiality  and  your  approval — never  did  an  uncx- 
ce^  tional  wooer  receive  such  niggard  encourage- 
ment ! — I  wish  there  were  some  sort  of  test  for  her 
quality.  I  would  be  proud  to  stand  by  it,  and  you 
would  be  convinced.  I  can't  find  words  to  describe 
my  objection  to  your  state  of  mind." 

The  thing  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  foregone  con- 
clusion. I  saw  it  accomplished,  with  all  its  possi- 
bilities of  disastrous  commonplace.  I  saw  all  that 
I  have  here  taken  the  trouble  to  foreshadow.  So 
far  as  I  was  concerned,  Dacres's  burden  would  add 
itself  to  my  philosophies,  voila  tout.  I  should  al- 
ways be  a  little  uncomfortable  about  it,  because  it 
had  been  taken  from  my  back;  but  it  would 
not  be  a  matter  for  the  wringing  of  hands.  And 
yet — the  hatefulness  of  the  mistake!  Dacres's 
bold  talk  of  a  test  made  no  suggestion.  Should 
90 


iMOTIIEK   IN   INDIA 


n.3^mvc.„,io„  be  ™„  fertile?     I  tl,ou«l.t  of  ao„,e- 

;;  Vou  l,„vc  said  nothing  to  her  yet?  "  I  asked. 
'Notlimg.     I  don't  think  she  suspect,  f„r  a 
n.o.ncnt.     She  treat.  n,e  a.,  if  no  sueh'fe  ,  d  "  „ 
-ere  po..s.ble.     Tn,  none  too  confident,  you  knol  " 
lie  ad.lcd,  with  a  longer  face. 

AgrI?  »"  ^°  ''"'■«'"  '"  ^'«''"-    ^'°'"''  y-  —  to 

Tho"„^'''f ' "  'r  ?'"'•     "  '^'"^  "-^"""y  °f  Mumtaz ! 
•I lie  garden  o*^  the  Tail     T>„„     i 

love  iTndr.  n  •'  '''"'''^''  "■""''^'l  to 

ovc  un,k.    the  san,e  moon  as  Shah  Jehan.     How 
tlioughtfid  of  you !  " 

I  cnlr'°"  !""'.'  '^""^  "  ^'"^  '^"y'  ^''^  "«  '■"  Agra," 
I  contmued.  .  And  a,  you  say,  it  is  the  very  ph.  e 
to  shr,ne  your  happiness,  if  it  comes  to  pass  tLe;'' 

kmdnes  from  you  at  last,"  said  D  -OS,  as  the 
steward,  can.e  to  lay  the  table.     «  But  1  w  sh  "  L 

a.lde     regretfully,  "you  could  have  thought 'of  a 


01 


rnm^MT'^m'^'T^, 


w 


CIIAI'TKR   V 

Foitt   (lays   Inter   wc  were   in   Arto.     A   time 
thcru  WHS  wlien  tlie  niimc  would  have  been  the  key 
of  drcnm»  to  mc ;    now  it  stood   for  John's  head- 
quarters.    1  was  rejoiced  to  think  I  would  look 
again  upon  the  'i'.ij  ;    and  the  prospect  of  living 
with  it  was  i  real  enchantment ;  but  1  pondered  most 
the  kind  ol'  house  that  would  Ijo  provided  for  the 
General  Connnanding  the  District,  how  many  the 
dining-room  would  scat,  and  whether  it  would  have  a 
roof  of  thatch  or  of  corrugated  iron- -I  prayed 
against  corrugated  iron.    I  confess  these  my  preoc- 
cupations.    I  was  forty,  and  at  forty  the  prartical 
considerations  of  life  hold  their  own  even  against 
domes  of  marble,  world-renowned,  and  set  about  with 
gardens  where  the  bulbul  sings  to  the  rose.     I  smiled 
across  the  years  at  the  raptures  of  my  first  vision  of 
the  place  at  twenty-one,  just  Cecily's  age.    Would  I 
now  sit  under  Arjamand's  cypresses  till  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning  to  sec  the  wonder  of  her  tomb  at  a 
particular  angle  of  the  moon?     Would  I  climb  one 
of  her  tall  white  ministering  minarets  to  sec  any- 
thing whatever?    I  very  greatly  feared  that  I  would 
not.    Alas  for  the  aging  of  sentiment,  of  interest! 
Keep  your  touch  with  life  and  your  scat  in  the  saddle 


th 


lajp. 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

«.  Ion«  a,  you  will,  tl.e  world  is  no  ncu-  to,,  ut  forty. 
But  Cnly  „.,.,  twcnty-onc,  C.,Hy  «,,„  ,a  .,.,,.; 
«n..h,nK   „.r  lunch  wl.il.  Uacrcn  Tottch,.,,,  ulki 

;;;;:v;;;  •"'''"' ''"'^''' ""«''' ''-^-■'^^^'' 

"  Hut  .surely,"  «„id  Cecily  reflectively.  "  tobacco 
««  not  discovered  in  England  then.  Akhar  eu.ne 
10  tne  throne  in  IflSC." 

"  Nor  Carlyle  either  for  that  matter."  I  h„..  „ed 
to  observe.  '■  Nevortl.eles.s.  I  think  Mr.  T  en- 
ham  s  proposition  must  stand." 

"Thanks,  Jlrs.  Farnham."  said  Dacres.  "  But 
"nagine  .Miss  Farnlwun's  temen.berinKAkbar's  date- 
1  m  sure  you  didn't !  " 

"Let  us  hope  she  doesn't  know  too  nmch  about 
;j;,.  ^  "''■'^  «''''^'  ""'  ""•■^'^  «'■"  '«■•  nothing  to 

^^  "  Oh,  really  and  truly  very  little!  "  said  Cecily, 
but  as  soon  as  we  heard  papa  would  be  stationed 
here  Aunt  Kmma  made  me  read  up  about  those  old 
Moguls  and  people.  I  think  I  ren.en.ber  the 
dynasty.  Baber,  wasn't  he  the  first  .P  and  then 
Humayon,  an.l  after  bin,  Akbar,  and  then  Jelmngir 
and  then  Shah  .T.han.  But  I've  forgotten  every' 
date  but  Akbar's."  ^ 

She  smiled  her  smile  of  brilliant  health  and  even 
^p.nts  as  she  made  the  damaging  admission,  and  she 
was  so  good  to  look  at,  sitting  there  simple  and 
93 


A   MOTHER   IN    INDIA 

wholesome  and  fresh,  peehng  her  banana  with  her 
well-shaped  fingers,  that  we  swallowed  the  dynasty 
as  it  were  whole,  and  smiled  back  upon  her.  John, 
I  may  suy,  was  extremely  pleased  with  Cecily;  he 
saic  she  was  a  very  satis^'actory  human  accomplish- 
ment. One  would  have  thought,  positively,  the  way 
he  plumed  himself  over  his  handsome  daughter,  that 
he  alone  was  responsible  for  her.  But  John,  having 
received  his  i'amily,  straightway  set  off  with  his 
Staff  on  a  tour  of  inspection,  and  thereby  takes  him- 
self out  of  this  history.  I  sometimes  think  that  if 
he  had  stayed — but  there  has  never  been  the  lightest 
recrimination  between  us  about  it,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  hint  one  now. 

"  Did  you  read,"  asked  Dacres,  "  what  he  and 
the  Court  poet  wrote  over  the  entrance  gate  to  the 
big  mosque  at  Fattehpur-Sikri  ?  It's  rather  nice. 
'  The  world  is  a  looking-glass,  wherein  the  image  has 
come  and  is  gone — take  as  thine  own  nothing  more 
than  what  thou  lookest  upon.'  " 

My  daughter's  thoughtful  gaze  was,  of  course, 
fixed  upon  the  speaker,  and  in  his  own  glance  I  saw 
a  sudden  ray  of  consciousness;  but  Cecily  trans- 
ferred her  eyes  to  the  opposite  wall,  deeply  con- 
sidering, and  while  Dacres  and  I  smiled  across  the 
table,  I  saw  that  she  had  perceived  no  reason  for 
blushing.    It  was  a  singularly  narrow  escape. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  didn't;    what  a  curious 
proverb  for  an  emperor  to  make!     He  couldn't 
94 


.i&...  '^M  ■ 


A   MOTHEn   IN   INDIA 

possibly  have  been  able  to  see  all  his  possessions  at 
once." 

"  If  you  have  finished,"  Dacres  addressed  her, 
"  do  let  me  show  you  what  your  plain  and  immediate' 
duty  IS  to  the  garden.    The  garden  waits  for  you— 

all  the  roses  expectant " 

«  Why,  there  isn't  one!  »  cried  Cecily,  pinning 
on  her  hat.    It  was  pleasing,  and  just  a  trifle  pa- 
thetic, the  way  he  hurried  her  out  of  the  scope  of  any 
little  dart;  he  would  not  have  her  even  within  range 
of   amused    observation.     Would   he   continue,    I 
wondered  vaguely,  as,  with  my  elbows  on  the  table, 
I  tore  into  strips  the  lemon-leaf  that  floated  in  my 
finger-bowl— would  he  continue,  through  life,  to 
shelter  her  from  his  other  clever  friends  as  now  he 
attempted  to  shelter  her  from  her  mother.'     In  that 
case  he  would  have  to  domicile  her,  poor  dear,  behind 
the  curtain,  like  the  native  ladies— a  good  price  to 
pay  for  a  protection  of  which,  bless  her  heart!  she 
would  be  all  unaware.     I  had  quite  stopped  bemoan- 
ing the  affair;   perhaps  the  comments  of  my  hus- 
band, who  treated  it  with  broad  approval  and  satis- 
faction, did  something  to  soothe  my  sensibilities.    At 
all  events,  I  had  gradually  come  to  occupy  a  high 
fatalistic  ground  toward  the  pair.     If  it  was  written 
upon  their  foreheads  that  they  should  marry,  the  in- 
scription was  none  of  mine;   and,  of  course,  it  was 
true,  as  John  had  indignantly  .tated,  that  Dacres 
might  do  very  much  worse.  One's  interest  in  Dacres 
95 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

Tottenham's  problematical  future  had  in  no  way  di- 
minished ;  but  the  young  man  was  so  positive,  so  full 
of  intention,  so  disinclined  to  discussion — he  had  not 
reopened  the  subject  since  that  morning  in  the  saloon 
of  the  Caledonia — that  one's  feeling  about  it  rather 
took  the  attenuated  form  of  a  shrug.  I  am  afraid, 
too,  that  the  pleasurable  excitement  of  such  an  im- 
pending event  had  a  little  supervened ;  even  at  forty 
there  is  no  disallowing  the  natural  interests  of  one's 
sex.  As  I  sat  there  pulling  my  lemon-leaf  to  pieces, 
I  should  not  have  been  surprised  or  in  the  least  put 
about  if  the  two  had  returned  radiant  from  the  lawn 
to  demand  my  blessing.  As  to  the  test  of  quality 
that  I  had  obligingly  invented  for  Dacrcs  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  without  his  knowledge  or  con- 
nivance, it  had  some  time  ago  faded  into  what  he 
apprehended  it  to  be — a  mere  idyllic  opportunity,  a 
charming  background,  a  frame  for  his  project,  of 
prettier  sentiment  thpn  the  funnels  and  the  hand- 
rails of  a  ship. 

Mr.  Tottenham  had  ten  days  to  spend  with  us. 
He  knew  the  place  well ;  it  belonged  to  the  province 
to  whf^se  service  he  was  dedicated,  and  he  claimed 
wiLh  impressive  authority  the  privilege  of  showing  it 
to  Cecily  by  degrees — the  Hall  of  Audience  to-day, 
the  Jessamine  Tower  to-morrow,  the  tomb  of  Akbar 
another,  and  the  Deserted  City  yc,  another  day. 
We  arranged  the  expeditions  in  conference,  Dacres 
insisting  only  upon  the  order  of  them,  which  I  saw 
96 


1.1^ 


-W'  ,W: 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

was  to  be  cumulative,  with  the  Taj  at  the  very  end, 
on  the  night  precisely  of  the  full  of  U,e  moon,  with  a 
better  chance  of  roses.    I  had  no  special  views,  but 
Cecily  contributed  some ;  that  we  should  do  the  Hall 
of  Audience  in  the  morning,  so  as  not  to  interfere 
with  the  club  tennis  in  the  afternoon,  that  we  should 
bicycle  to  Akbar's  tomb  and  take  a  cold  luncheon— if 
we  were  sure  there  would  be  no  snakes— to  the  De- 
serted City,  to  all  of  which  Dacres  gave  loyal  assent. 
I   indorsed   everything;   I    was   the   encouraging 
chorus,  only  stipulating  that  my  number  should  be 
swelled  from  day  to  day  by  the  addition  of  such  per- 
sons as  I  should  approve.     Cecily,  for  instance, 
wanted  to  invite  the  Bakewells  because  we  had  come 
out  in  the  same  ship  with  them ;  but  I  could  not  en- 
dure the  Bakewells,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  our 
having  made  the  voyage  with  them  was  the  best  pos- 
sible reason  for  declining  to  lay  eyes  on  them  for  the 
rest  of  our  natural  lives.     «  Mamma  has  such  strong 
prejudices,"  Cecily   remarked,  as  she  reluctantly 
gave  up  the  idea;   and  I  waited  to  see  whether  the 
graceless  Tottenham   would  unmurmuringly   take 
down  the  Bakewells.     How  strong  must  be  the  senti- 
ment that  turns  a  man  into  a  boa-constrictor  without 
a  pang  of  transmigration !    But  no,  this  time  he  was 
faithful  to  the  principles  of  his  pre-Cecilian  ex- 
istence.    "  They  are  rather  Boojums,"  he  declared.     . 
'  You  would  think  so,  too,  if  you  knew  them  better 
It  is  that  kind  of  excellent  person  that  makes  the  real 
97 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

burden  of  India."  I  could  have  patted  him  on  the 
back. 

Thanks  to  the  rest  of  the  chorus,  which  proved 
abundantly  available,  I  was  no  immediate  witness  to 
Cecily's  introduction  to  the  glorious  fragments 
which  sustain  in  Agra  the  memory  of  the  Moguls. 
I  may  as  well  say  that  I  arranged  with  care  that  if 
anybody  must  be  standing  by  when  Dacrcs  disclosed 
them,  it  should  not  be  I.  If  Cecily  had  squinted,  I 
should  have  been  sorry,  but  I  would  have  found  in  it 
no  personal  humiliation.  There  were  other  imper- 
fections of  vision,  however,  for  which  I  felt  responsi- 
ble and  ashamed ;  and  with  Dacrcs,  though  the  situ- 
ation. Heaven  knows,  waa  none  of  my  seeking,  I  had 
a  little  the  feeling  of  a  dealer  who  offers  a  defective 
bibelot  to  a  connoisseur.  My  charming  daughter — 
I  was  fifty  times  congratulated  upon  her  appear- 
ance and  her  manners — had  many  excellent  qualities 
and  capacities  which  she  never  inherited  from  me; 
but  she  could  see  no  more  than  the  bulk,  no  further 
than  the  perspective ;  she  could  register  exactly  as 
much  as  a  camera. 

This  was  a  curious  thing,  perhaps,  to  displease 
my  maternal  vanity,  but  it  did ;  I  had  really  rather 
she  squinted ;  and  when  there  was  anything  to  lor'- 
at  I  kept  out  of  the  way.  I  can  not  tell  precisely, 
therefore,  what  the  incidents  were  that  contributed 
to  make  Jlr.  Tottenham,  on  our  return  from  these 
expeuitions,  so  thoughtful,  with  a  thoughtfulness 
98 


i^wmsr^. 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

which  increased,  toward  the  end  of  them,  to  a  positive 
gravity.  This  would  disappear  during  dinner  under 
the  influence  of  food  and  drink.     He  would  talk 

nightly  with  new  enthusiasm  and  fresh  hope or 

did  I  imagine  it?— of  the  loveliness  he  had  arranged 
to  reveal  on  the  following  day.  If  again  my  imagi- 
nation did  not  lead  me  astray,  I  fancied  this  occurred 
later  and  later  in  the  course  of  the  meal  as  the  week 
went  on;  as  if  his  state  required  more  stimulus  as 
time  progressed.  One  evening,  when  I  expected  it 
to  flag  altogether,  I  had  a  whim  to  order  champagne 
and  observe  the  effect ;  but  I  am  gl^d  to  say  that  I 
reproved  myself,  and  refrained. 

Cecily,  meanwhile,  was  conducting  herself  in  a 
manner  which  left  nothing  to  bo  desired.     If,  as  I 
sometimes  thought,  she  took  Dacies  very  much  for 
granted,  she  took  him  calmly  for  granted;    slie 
seemed  a  prey  to  none  of  those  fluttering  uncertain- 
ties, those  suspended  judgments  and  elaborate  in- 
differences which  translate  themselves  so  plainly  in  a 
young  lady  receiving  addresses.     She  turned  herself 
out  very  freshly  and  very  well;    she  was  always 
ready  f  r  everything,  and  I  am  sure  that  no  glance 
of  Dacres  Tottenham's  found  aught  but  direct  and 
decorous  response.     His  society  on  these  occasions 
gave  her  solid  pleasure;    so  did  the  drive  and  the 
lunch;   the  satisfactions  were  apparently  upon  the 
same  plane.    She  was  aware  of  the  plum,  if  I  may  be 
permitted  a  brusque  but  irresistible  simile;  and  with 
99 


m 


-»  ill 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 


If 


her  mouth  open,  her  eyes  modestly  closed,  and  her 
head  in  a  convenient  position,  she  waited,  placidly, 
until  it  should  fall  in.  The  Farnham  ladies  would 
have  been  delighted  with  the  result  of  their  labors  in 
the  sweet  reason  and  eminent  propriety  of  this  atti- 
tude. Thinking  of  my  idiotic  sufferings  when  John 
began  to  fix  himself  upon  my  horizon,  I  pondered 
profoundly  the  power  of  nature  in  differentiation. 
,  One  evening,  the  last,  I  think,  but  one,  I  had 
occasion  to  go  to  my  daughter's  room,  and  found 
her  writing  in  her  commonplace-book.  She  had  a 
commonplace-book,  as  well  as  a  Where  Is  It?  an 
engagement-book,  an  account-book,  a  dairy,  a  Daily 
Sunshine,  and  others  with  purposes  too  various  to 
remember.  "  Dearest  mamma,"  she  said,  as  I  was 
departing, "  there  ii  only  one '  p '  in '  opulence,'  isn't 
there?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  with  my  hand  on  the  door- 
handle, and  added  curiously,  for  it  was  an  odd  word 
in  Cecily's  mouth,  "  Why  ?  ' 

She  hardly  hesitated.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  am 
just  writing  down  one  or  two  things  Mr.  Tottenham 
said  about  Agra  before  I  forget  them.  They  seemed 
so  true." 

"  He  has  a  descriptive  touch,"  I  remarked. 

"  I  think  he  -'pscribes  beautifully.  Would  you 
like  to  hear  what  he  said  to-day  ?  " 


'  I  would,"  I  replied,  sincerely. 
'  Agra,'  "  read  this  astonishing  young 
100 


lady. 


lil 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

"'is  India's  one  pure  idyl.     Elsewhere  she  offers 
other   things,   foolish  opulence,  tawdry   pageant, 
treaenery   „f  eunuchs  and  jealousies  of   harems, 
thefts  of  kings'  jewels  and  barbaric  retributions; 
but  they  are  all  actual,  visualized,  or  part  of  a  past 
that  shows  t.  the  backward  glance  hardly  more  relief 
and  vitality  than  a  Persian  painting '-I  should 
like  to  see  a  Persian  painting-'  but  here  the  immor- 
tal tombs  and  pleasure-houses  rise  out  of  color  deli- 
cate and  subtle;   the  vision  holds  across  three  hun- 
dred years  ;  the  print  of  the  court  is  still  in  the  dust 
of  the  city.' " 

"  Did  you  really  let  him  go  on  like  that?  "  I  ex- 
claimed.    «  It  has  the  license  of  a  lecture !  " 

"  I  encouraged  him  to.  Of  course  he  didn't  say 
It  straight  off.  He  said  it  naturally;  he  stopped 
now  and  then  to  cough.  I  didn't  understand  it  all ; 
but  I  think  I  have  remembered  every  word." 

"  You  have  a  remarkable  memory.  I'm  glad  he 
stopped  to  cough.     Is  there  any  more  "  " 

"One  little  bit.  'Here  the  Moguls  wrought 
their  passions  into  marble,  and  held  them  up  with 
great  refrains  from  their  religion,  and  set  them 
about  with  gardens;  and  here  they  stand  in  the  twi- 
light of  the  glory  of  those  kings  and  the  noonday 
splendor  of  their  own.'  " 

"How  clever  of  you!"  I  exclaimed.  "How 
wonderfully  clever  of  you  to  remember!  " 

"  I  had  to  ask  him  to  repeat  one  or  two  sentences. 
101 


r 


p, 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

He  didn't  like  that.  But  this  is  nothing.  I  used  to 
learn  pages  Icttcr-pcrfcct  for  Aunt  Emma.  Slic 
was  very  particular.  I  think  it  is  worth  preserving, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  Dear  Cecily,"  I  responded, "  you  have  a  frugal 
mind." 

There  was  nothing  else  to  respond.  I  could 
not  tell  her  just  how  practical  I  thought  her,  or  how 
pathetic  her  little  book. 


103 


•«:-^* 


CHAPTER    VI 

We  drove  together,  after  dinner,  to  the  Taj. 
The  moonhght  lay  in  an  empty  splendor  over  the 
broad  sandy  road,  with  the  acacias  pricking  up  on 
each  side  of  it  and  the  gardens  of  the  station  bunga 
lows  stretching  back  into  clusters  of  crisp  shadows. 
It  was  an   exquisite  February  night,  very   still. 
Nothing  seemed  abroad  but  two  or  three  pariah  dogs, 
upon  vague  and  errant  business,  and  the  Executive 
Engineer  going  swiftly  home  from  the  club  on  his 
bicycle.     Even  the  little  shops  of  the  bazaar  were 
dark  and  empty ;  only  here  and  there  a  light  showed 
barred  behind  the  carved  balconies  of  the  upper 
rooms,  and  there  was  hardly  any  tom-tomming.    The 
last  long  slope  of  the  road  showed  us  the  river  curv- 
ing to  the  left,  through  a  silent  white  waste  that 
stretched  indefinitely  into  the  moonlight  on  one  side, 
and  was  crowned  by  Akbar's  fort  on  the  other.    His 
long  high   line  of  turrets   and  battlements   still 
guarded  a  hint  of  their  evening  rose,  and  dim  and 
exquisite  above  them  hovered  the  three  dome-bubbles 
of  the  Pearl  Jlosque.     It  was  a  night  of  perfect 
illusion,  and  the  illusion  was  mysterious,  delicate, 
and  faint.     I  sat  silent  as  wc  oiled  along,  twenty 
103 


IJ! 


(       > 


II 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

years  nearer  to  tlic  original  joy  of  things  when 
John  and  I  drove  through  the  same  old  dream, 

Uacrcs,  too,  seemed  preoccupied;  only  Cecily 
was,  as  they  say,  herself.  Cecily  was  really  more 
than  herself,  she  exhibited  an  unusual  flow  of  spirits. 
She  talked  continually,  she  pointed  out  this  and  that, 
she  asked  who  lived  here  and  who  lived  there.  At 
regular  intervals  of  about  four  minutes  she  de- 
manded if  it  wasn't  simply  too  lovely.  She  sat 
straight  up  with  her  vigorous  profile  and  her  smart 
hat ;  and  the  silhouette  of  her  personality  sharply 
refused  to  mingle  with  the  dust  of  any  dynasty. 
She  was  a  contrast,  a  protest ;  positively  she  was  an 
indignity.  "  Do  lean  back,  dear  child,"  I  ex- 
claimed at  last.  "  You  interfere  with  th"  land- 
scape." 

She  leaned  back,  but  she  went  on  interfering 
with  it  in  terms  of  sincerest  enthusiasm. 

When  we  stopped  at  the  great  archway  of  en- 
trance I  begged  to  be  left  in  the  carriage.  What 
else  could  one  do,  when  the  golden  moment  had  come, 
but  sit  in  the  carriage  and  measure  it?  They 
climbed  the  broad  stone  steps  together  and  passed 
under  the  lofty  gravures  into  the  garden,  and  I 
waited.  I  waited  and  remembered.  I  am  not,  as 
perhaps  by  this  time  is  evident,  a  person  of  over- 
whelming sentiment,  but  I  think  the  smile  upon  my 
lips  was  gentle.  So  plainly  I  could  sec,  beyond  the 
massive  archway  and  across  a  score  of  years,  all  that 
101 


A    MOTHER    IN    indIA 

ihcy  .aw  at  that  moment-Arjamand',  K„r.lcn  ana 
he  long  straight  tank  of  n,«rblo  cleaving  i  Lrof 
"lecprng  water  and  the  shadow,  of  the  mar»ha  n„ 
cypresses;  her  wide  darlc  garden  of  Jet:^ 
pomegranates,  and  at  the  end  the  Vision.  „,arve  ou, 
-enal,  the  soul  of  son.ething-is  it  beaut^P  is  ilT 
luJ  T"'  '''^"'  ^"'^''  °f  ^"'^  in  '"ourning 

mjjui  'rr  V'' """""  °' ""'  ''"'-^  -'"' 

T«    Ma  a        A       "!;   ^  ""I'-'-'-'ble,  .ndescribable 
iaj  Mahal.     A  gentle  breath  stole  out  with  a  scent 
o   jessannno  and  such  a  n,e„.or,  -    I  dosed  n.,:; 
and  felt  the  warm  luxury  of  a  tear 

all  Here  my  cherry-stone  theories  of  taste  and  tem 
perament  before  that  uncalculating  tLgVZ 
"ways  a  world  and  builds  a  Taj  M^hal      W       ,- 

probable  that  Arjamand  and  herC:-har^:ed 
fast,d.ously  and  yet  how  they  had  Led!    I  win 

S  ""M"*"  --'d-tion  of  the  blind  forces 

sons  riT""     "  "°"''''  '■"  "■'"^''  -"'■"^  y-ng  PC 
sons  hke  my  daughter  Cecily  had  such  a  plL     j 

speculated  vaguely  upon  the  value  of  the  subtler 

-as  a  channmg,  charming  thing  to  wait,  there  at 
105 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

the  portal  of  the  silvered,  iccnted  gordcn,  for  on 
idyl  to  come  forth. 

When  they  renppenrwl,  Dacrc«  and  my  daugh- 
ter, 'ley  came  with  casual  »tcp«  and  cheerful 
voice^.  They  might  have  heen  a  couple  of  touristi. 
The  moonliRht  fell  full  upon  them  on  the  platform 
under  the  arch.  It  showed  Dacrcs  mencurinK  with 
his  .tick  the  lenRfh  of  the  Sanscrit  letters  which  de- 
clared the  stately  texts,  and  Cecily's  expression  of 
polite,  perfunctory  interest.  They  looked  up  at  the 
height  above  them;  they  looked  back  at  the  vision 
behind.  Then  they  sauntered  toward  the  carriage, 
he  offering  a  formal  hand  to  help  her  down  the  un- 
certain steps,  slic  gracefully  accepting  it. 

"  You— you  have  not  been  long,"  said  I.  "I 
hope  you  didn't  iiurry  on  my  account." 

"  Miss  Farnham  found  the  marble  a  little  cold 
under  foot,"  replied  Dacres,  putting  Miss  Farn- 
ham in. 

"  You  sec,"  cs  plained  Cecily,  ''  I  stupidly  for- 
got to  change  into  thicker  soles.  I  have  only  my 
slippers.  But,  mamma,  how  lovely  it  is!  Do  let  us 
come  again  in  the  daytime.  I  am  dying  to  make  a 
sketch  of  it." 

Mr.  Tottenham  was  to  leave  us  on  the  following 
day.  In  the  morning,  after  "little  breakfast,"  as 
w.-  say  in  India,  he  sought  me  in  the  room  I  had  set 
aside  to  be  particularly  my  own. 

Again  I  was  writing  to  John,  but  this  time  I 
106 


it  . 


m 


A    .MOTUKH     IN     INDIA 

waited  for  pririwly  hix  interruption.  I  li.ul  « it  no 
furtliir  tli.in  "My  .liarist  husband,"  and  my  jicn- 
liandli-  was  a  CririKt'. 

"Anotliir  fine  day,"  I  said,  ns  if  tlir  old,  „1,| 
Indian  joke  rould  ffivc  liini  case,  poor  man ! 

"  Yis,"  said  he,  "  wc  arc  having  lovely  weather." 
He  liad  forgotten  that  it  was  a  joke.     Then  he 
lapsed  into  silence  while  I  renewed  my  attentions  to 
my  pen. 

"  I  say,"  he  said  at  last,  with  so  strained  a  look 
about  his  mouth  that  it  was  almost  a  contortion,  "  I 
haven't  done  it,  you  know." 

"  No,"  I  responded,  chcerfidly,  "  and  you're 
notgoinKto.    Is  that  it?    Well!" 

"  Frankly "  said  he. 

"  I)e/-.r  mc,  yes !  AnythinR  else  between  you  and 
mo  would  be  grotesque,"  I  interrupted.  "  after  all 
these  years." 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  bo  a  sureess,"  he  said, 
looking  at  me  resolutely  witli  his  clear  blue  eyes, 
in  which  still  lay,  alas!  the  possibility  of  many  de- 
h'sions. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I  never  did,  you  know.  Hut  the 
prospect  had  hofjun  to  impose  upon  me." 

"  To  say  how  right  you  were  would  seem,  under 
the  circumstanr.s,  the  most  liatcful  form  of  flat- 
tery." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  think  I  can  dispense  with  your 
verbal  indorsement."    I  felt  a  little  bitter.    It  was, 
®  107 


mnm: 


•;.  -^ ^•^•^'^ 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

of  coarse,  better  thiit  the  connoisseur  should  have 
discovered  the  flaw  before  concluding  the  transac- 
tion ;  but  although  I  had  pointed  it  out  myself  I  was 
not  entirely  pleased  to  have  the  article  returned. 

"  I  am  infinitely  ashamed  that  it  should  have 
taken  me  all  these  days— day  after  day  and  each 
contributory — to  discover  what  you  saw  so  easily 
and  so  completely." 

"  You  forget  that  I  am  her  mother,"  I  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  saying. 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake  don't  jeer!  Please  be  ab- 
solutely direct,  and  tell  me  if  you  have  reason  to 
believe  that  to  the  extent  of  a  thought,  of  a  breath — 
to  any  extent  at  all — she  cares." 

He  was,  I  could  see,  very  deeply  moved ;  he  had 
not  arrived  at  this  point  without  trouble  and  disor- 
der not  lightly  to  be  put  on  or  off.  Yet  I  did  not 
hurry  to  his  relief,  I  was  still  possessed  by  a  vague 
feeling  of  offense.  I  reflected  that  any  mother 
would  be,  and  I  quite  plumed  myself  upon  my  an- 
noyance. It  was  so  satisfactory,  when  one  had  a 
daughter,  to  know  the  sensations  of  even  any  moth- 
er. Nor  was  it  soothing  to  remember  that  the  young 
man's  whole  attitude  toward  Cecily  had  been  based 
upon  criticism  of  me,  even  though  he  sat  before  mc 
whi)  ped  with  his  own  lash.  His  temerity  had  been 
stupid  and  obstinate ;  I  could  not  regret  his  punish- 
ment. 

I  kept  him  waiting  long  enough  to  think  all 
108 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

this,  and  then  I  replied,  "  I  have  not  the  least  means 
of  knowing." 

I  can  not  say  what  he  expected,  but  hi  squared 
his  shoulders  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow  n-.id  might 
receive  another.  Then  he  looked  at  me  with  a  flash 
of  the  old  indignation.  "  You  are  not  near  enough 
to  her  for  that !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  am  not  near  enough  to  her  for  that." 
Silence  fell  between  us.  A  crow  perched  upon 
an  opened  Venetian  and  cawed  lustily.  For  years 
afterward  I  never  heard  a  crow  caw  without  a  sense 
of  vain,  distressing  experiment.  Dacrcs  got  up  and 
began  to  walk  about  the  room.  I  very  soon  put  a 
stop  to  that.  «  I  can't  talk  to  a  pendulum,"  I  said, 
but  I  could  not  persuade  him  to  sit  down  again. 

"  Candidly,"  he    .aid  at  length,  "  do  you  think 
she  would  have  me?  '' 

"  I  regret  to  say  that  I  think  she  would.     But 
you  would  not  dream  of  asking  her." 

"Why  not.'    She  is  a  dear  girl,"  he  responded, 
inconsequently. 

"  You  could  not  possibly  stand  it." 
Then  Mr.  Tottenham  delivered  himself  of  this 
remarkable  phrase:  "  I  could  stand  it,"  he  said,  "  as 
well  as  you  can." 

There  was  far  from  being  any  joy  in  the  irony 

with  which  I  regarded  him  and  under  which  I  saw 

him  gather  up  his  resolution  to  go;  nevertheless  I 

did  nothing  to  make  it  easy  for  him.     I  refrained 

109 


'1 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

from  imparting  my  private  conviction  that  Cecily 
would  accept  the  first  presentable  substitute  that  ap- 
peared, although  it  was  strong.     I  made  no  refer- 
ence to  my  daughter's  large  fund  of  philosophy  and 
small  balance  of  sentiment.    I  did  not  even— though 
this  was  reprehensible — confess  the    est,  the  test  of 
quality  in  these  ten  days  with  the  marble  archives  of 
the   Moguls,   which  I   had  almost   wantonly   sug- 
gested, which  he  had  so  unconsciously  accepted,  so 
disastrously  applied.    I  gave  him  quite  fifteen  min- 
utes of  his  bad  quarter  of  f...  hour,  and  when  it  was 
over  I  wrote  truthfully  but  furiously  to  John.  .  .  . 
That  was  ten  years  ago.    We  have  since  attained 
the  shades  of  retirement,  and  our  daughter  is  still 
with  us  when  she  is  not  with  Aunt  Emma  and  Aunt 
Alice — grandmamma  has  passed  away.      Mr.  Tot- 
tenham's dumb  departure  that  day  in  February- 
it  was  the  year  John  got  his  C.B. — was  followed,  I 
am  thankful  to  say,  by  none  of  the  symptoms  of  un- 
requited affection  on  Cecily's  part.     Not  for  ten 
minutes,  so  far  as  I  was  aware,  was  she  the  maid  for- 
lorn.    I  think  her  self-respect  was  of  too  robust  a 
character,  thanks  to  the  Misses  Farnham.    Still  less, 
of  course,  had  she  any  reproaches  to  serve  upon  her 
mother,  although  for  a  long  time  I  thought  I  de- 
tected— or  was  it  my  guilty  conscience? — a  spark  of 
shrewdness  in  the  glance  she  bent  upon  me  when  the 
talk  was  of  Mr.  Tottenham  and  the  probabilities  of 
his  return  to  Agra.    So  well  did  she  sustain  her  ex- 
110 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 

pericncc,  or  so  little  did  she  feel  it,  that  I  believe  the 
impression  went  abroad  that  Dacres  liad  been  sent 
disconsolate  away,     One  astonishing  conversation  I 
had  with  her  some  six  months  later,  which  turned 
upon  the  point  of  a  particularly  desirable  offer.    She 
told  me  someth    g  then,  without  any  sort  of  embar- 
rassment, but  quite  lucidly  and  directly,  that  edified 
me  much  to  hear.    She  said  that  while  she  was  quite 
sure  that  Mr.  Tottenham  thought  of  her  only  as  a 
friend — she  had  never  had  the  least  reason  for  any 
other  impression — he  had  done  her  a  service  for 
which  she  could  not  thank  him  enough — in  showing 
her  whp  t  a  husband  might  be.    He  had  given  her  a 
standard ;  it  might  be  high,  but  it  was  unalterable. 
She  didn't  know  whether  she  could  describe  it,  but 
Mr.  Tottenham  was  different  from  the  kind  of  man 
you  seemed  to  meet  in  India.    He  had  his  own  ways 
of  looking  at  things,  and  he  talked  so  well.    He  liad 
given  her  an  ideal,  and  she  intended  to  profit  by  it. 
To  know  that  men  like  Mr.  Tottenham  existed,  and 
to  marry  any  other  kind  would  be  an  act  of  folly 
which  she  did  not  intend  to  commit.    No,  Major  the 
Hon.  Hugh  Taverel  did  not  come  near  it — very  far 
short,  indeed !  He  had  talked  to  her  during  the  whole 
of  dinner  the  night  before  about  jackal-hunting  with 
a  bobbery  pack— not  at  all  an  elevated  mind.    Yes, 
he  might  be  a  very  good  fellow,  but  as  a  companion 
for  life  she  was  sure  he  would  not  be  at  all  suitable. 
She  would  wait. 

Ill 


A    MOTHER    IN    INDIA 


|!'< 


And  she  has  waited.  I  never  thought  she  would, 
but  she  has.  From  time  to  time  men  have  wished 
to  take  her  from  us,  but  the  standard  has  been  in- 
exorable, and  none  of  them  have  reached  it.  When 
Dacrcs  married  the  chairning  American  whom  he 
caught  like  a  butterfly  upoo  her  Eastern  tour,  Cec- 
ily sent  them  as  a  wedding  present  an  alabaster 
model  of  the  Taj,  and  I  let  her  do  it — the  gift  wis 
so  exquisitely  appropriate.  I  suppose  he  never 
looks  at  it  without  being  reminded  that  he  didn't 
marry  Miss  Famham,  and  I  hope  that  he  remembers 
that  he  owes  it  to  Miss  Farnham's  mother.  So  much 
I  think  I  might  claim ;  it  is  really  very  little  consid- 
ering what  it  stands  for.  Cecily  is  permanently 
with  us — I  believe  she  considers  herself  an  intimate. 
I  am  very  reasonable  about  lending  her  to  her  aunts, 
but  she  takes  no  sort  of  advantage  of  my  liberality ; 
she  says  she  knows  her  duty  is  at  home.  She  is  grow- 
ing into  a  firm  and  solid  English  maiden  lady,  with 
a  good  color  and  great  decision  of  charac '  er.  That 
she  always  had. 

I  point  ou";  to  John,  when  she  takes  our 
crumpets  away  from  us,  that  she  gets  it  from 
him.  I  could  never  take  away  anybody's  crumpets, 
merely  because  they  were  indigestible,  least  of  all 
my  own  parents'.  She  has  acquired  a  distinct  affec- 
tion for  us,  by  some  means  best  known  to  herself; 
but  I  should  have  no  objection  to  that  if  she  would 
not  rearrange  my  bonnet-strings.  That  is  a  fond 
113 


A    MOTHER     I 


N    INDIA 


ibcrty  to  ,vh,ch  I  take  exception ;  but  it  is  one  thi„. 
t"  take  exception  and  another  to  express  it  ^ 

Our  daughter  is  with  us,  pennunently  with  us 
Jh  declares  that  she  intends  to  bo  the  prop  o  o"; 
dcchn,ng  ,.ars ;  she  „,akes  the  statemenLfto  ,   a,u 

ri„T " '"'"'  •"  ■'"'""•^' » """^  of  -vest  «:. 

tio»  m  her  encounters  with  the  opposite  sex  ttt 

«nd  perhaps  a  n>ore  appreciative  Dacres  Totten 
1mm  may  flash  across  ]>cr  field  of  vision-akV  1 

ri':t';.";T;' '""-"-- '"^ - 


lis 


..•J.' 


G7^9*fi^^:^- 


yv  ,^,,'- 


AN   IMPOSSIBLE  IDEAL 


III 'J    -''i'' 


■'•Tt     , 


Iff 


UfK. 


CHAPTER   I 

To  understand  how  we  prized  him,  Dora  Harris 
and  I,   it   is   necessary  to  know    Simla.     I  sup- 
pose people  think  of  that  place,  if  they  ever  do  think 
of  it,  as  an  agreeable  retreat  in  the  wilds  of  the 
Himalayas  where  deodars  and  scandals  orow,  and 
where  the  Viceroy  if  he  likes  may  take  off  his  deoora- 
tions  and  go  about  in  flannels.    I  know  how  useless 
It  would  be  to  try  to  give  a  more  faithful  impres- 
sion, and  I  will  hold  back  from  the  attempt  as  far 
.-.3  I  can.     Besides,  my  little  story  is  itself  an  cx- 
pknation  of  Simla.    Ingersoll  Armour  might  have 
appeared  almost  anywhere  else  without  making  so- 
cial history.    He  came  and  bloomed  among  us  in  the 
wilderness,  and  such  and  such  things  happened.    It 
sounds  too  rude  a  generalization  to  say  that  Simla  is 
a  wilderness;  I  hasten  'c  add  that  it  is  a  waste  as 
highly    cultivated  as  you   like,   producing  many 
things   more    admirable   than   Ingersoll   Armour. 
Still  he  bloomed  there  conspicuously  alone.    Perhaps 
there  would  have  been  nothing  to  tell  if  we  had  not 
tried  to  gather  him.     That  was  wrong;  Nature  in 
Simla  expects  you  to  bo  content  with  cocked  hats. 

There  are  artists  almost  everywhere  and  people 
who  paint  even  in  the  Himalayas,  though  Miss  Har- 
117 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

ris  and  I  in  our  superior  way  went  yearly  to  the 
Simla  Fine  Arts  Exhibition  chiefly  tu  uniusc  our- 
selves by  scoffing.    It  was  easy  to  say  clover  things 


about  the  ])oor  little  exhibits ;  and  one  was  grateful 
to  the  show  on  tliis  account,  for  nothing  is  more  de- 
pressing east  of  Suez  than  the  absence  of  provoca- 
tion to  say  clever  things.  There  one  afternoon  in 
May  as  we  marched  about  enjoying  ourselves,  we 
came  upon  Ingcrsoll  Armour,  not  in  the  flesh,  but  in 
half  a  dozen  studies  hanging  in  the  least  conspicu- 
ous corner  and  quite  the  worst  light  in  the  room. 

"  Eh,  what?  "  said  I,  and  Dora  exclaimed: 

"  I  say!  " 

"  Sent  out  from  home,"  I  said,  ever  the  oracle. 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Dora.  "  Look,  they  arc 
Indian  subjects.  Simla  subjects,"  she  went  on, 
with  excitement. 

I  turned  up  the  catalogue.  "  Ninety-seven, 
'  Kasumti  Bazar ' ;  ninety-eight,  '  Clouds  on  the 
Chor '  ;  ninety-nine,  '  The  House  of  a  Friend  ' — 
Lord,  what  apricot  blossoms!  Yes,  they're  all 
Simla." 

"  For  goodness'  sake,"  said  Dora,  "  who  painted 
them  ?    Vou've  go-  '.he  catalogue !  " 

"  '  I.  Armour,'  "  I  read. 

"  '  I.  Armour,'  "  she  repeated,  and  we  looked  at 
each  other,  saying  in  plain  silence  that  to  the  small 
world  of  Simla  I.  Armour  was  unknown. 

"  Not  on  Government  House  list,  I  venture  to 
118 


■'■  '    I W'.Qy 


"fliii""  ^ 


'!!*■' 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

bolicvo  •'  ,„,d  Dora.     That  in  it,clf  „,„y  ,how  to 

«lmt  dopti,,  «.e  .ink.    Yet  it  w«,  a  trenchant  and  a 

reasonnhlp  speculation. 

"  I|  may  be  a  newcomer,"  I  .suKRostcd,  but  «hc 

•shook  her  nead.  "All  newcomer,  call  upon  uh," 
she  8ai,l.  "There  in  the  „n-d<lle  of  the  Mull  we 
escape  none  of  them.    He  isn't  a  callinR  person  " 

"  Why  do  you  8ay  '  he  '?  You  arc  very  confi- 
dent w,th  your  pronouns.  There's  a  delicacy  of 
feeling "  ■' 

"  Which  exactly  does  not  suRRcst  a  woman.  Wc 
are  undermined  by  delicacy  of  feeling;  we're  not 
strong  enough  to  express  it  with  brushes.  A  man 
can  make  it  a  quality,  a  decorative  characteristic, 
and  so  we  see  it.  With  a  woman  it's  everything-all 
over  the  place-and  of  no  effect.  Oh,  I  assure  you, 
I.  Armour  is  a  man." 

"  Who  shall  stand  against  you!  Let  him  be  a 
man.    He  has  taste." 

"  Taste !  "  ovclaimed  Miss  Harris,  violently,  and 
from  the  corners  of  her  mouth  I  gathered  that  I  had 
sa-d  one  of  those  things  which  she  would  store  up 
and  produce  to  prove  that  I  was  not,  for  all  my  pre- 
tensions, a  person  of  the  truest  feeling.  «  He  sees 
things." 

"  There's  an  intensity,"  I  ventured. 

"  That's  better.  Yes,  an  intensity.  A  perfect 
passion  of  color.  Look  at  that."  She  indicated  a 
patch  of  hillsides  pcrhr.s  six  inches 


119 


by 


in 


AN     I  M  P  O  S  S  I  B  I,  i:    I  D  K  A  L 

which  the  light  (ccincd  to  come  and  go  u  it  doc»  in 
a  sapphire. 

Wc  stood  and  gazed.  It  was  a  tremendous 
thing;  only  half  a  dozen  studies  with  feeling  and 
knowledge  in  tlicm,  but  there  in  that  remote  fastness 
thrice  barred  against  the  arts  a  tremendous  thing,  a 
banquet  for  our  famislied  eyes.  What  they  would 
have  said  to  us  in  London  is  a  different  matter,  and 
how  good  they  really  were  I  do  not  find  the  courage 
to  pronounce,  but  they  had  merit  enough  to  prick 
our  sense  of  beauty  delightfully  where  we  found 
them — oh,  they  were  goo<l ! 

"  Heaven  send  it  isn't  a  Tommy,"  said  Dora, 
with  a  falling  countenance.  "  There  is  something 
absolutely  inaccessible  about  a  Tommy." 

"  How  could  it  be?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  there  arc  some  inspired  ones.  But  it  isn't 
— that's  French  technique.  It's  an  Englishman  or 
an  American  who  has  worked  in  Paris.  What  in  the 
name  of  fortune  is  he  doing  here?  " 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  we  have  had  them,  you  know. 
Val  Prinsep  came  out  at  the  time  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales's  visit." 

"  Do  you  remember  that?  " 

"  It's  a  matter  of  history,"  I  said,  evasively, 
"  and  Edwin  Weeks  traveled  through  India  not  so 
many  years  ago.  I  saw  his  studio  in  Paris  after- 
ward. Between  his  own  canvases  and  Ahmedabad 
balconies  and  Delhi  embroideries  and  Burmese  Bud- 
120 


&?■— T.I 


P( 


AN     IMI'OSSIHI,  i:     IDKAI, 

<llm,  nnd  otlar  tiling,  |,„  sccinc.l  lo  Imve  ,,,rri.,l  olF 
llic  wliole  pluco." 

"  But  Hu'v  don't  conic  up  hero  ever.  Tlic.v  come 
in  the  mid  Heather,  and  ««  they  cm  Ret  plenty  of 
«noH-  «n,l  ice  «t  home,  they  ,tay  down  in  the  plain, 
with  the  palm-trees." 

"Precisely;  they  do,"  I, aid. 
"  And  besides,"  Dora  went  on,  with  increasinR 
excitement,  "  this  isn't  a  master.  You  see,  he  .loesn't 
send  a  single  picture— only  these  tiny  things.  And 
there's  a  certain  tentativeness  "—Miss  Harris,  her 
Iiarasol  handle  pressed  against  her  lips,  looked  at 
-nc  with  an  eagerness  that  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at 
m  itself. 

"  A  certain  weakness,  almost  a  lack  of  confidence, 
in  the  drawing,"  I  said. 

"  What  docs  that  signify?  " 
"  Why,  immaturity,  of  course— not  enough  dis- 
cipline. He's  a  stu,lent.  Not  that  it  amounts  to  a 
defect,  you  know  "-she  was  as  jealous  already  as  if 
she  possessed  the  things-"  only  a  sign  to  rend  by 
I  should  be  grateful  for  more  signs.  Why  should 
a  student  come  to  Simla?  " 

"  To  teach,  perhaps,"  I  suggested.    Naturally 
one  sought  only  among  reasons  of  utility. 

"  It's  the  Kensington  person  who  teaches.   When 
they  hayc  worked  in  the  ateliers  and  learned  as  much 
as  this  they  never  do.    They  p„i„t  fans  and  menu 
cards,  and  starve,  but  they  don't  teach." 
121 


wmmmsv^'H^  ^m.  mj/^m: 


i  ( !.': 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

Sir  William  Lamb,  Member  of  Council  for  tlie 
Department  of  Finance,  v.as  borne  by  the  stream  to 
our  sides.  The  simile  will  hardly  stand  conscientious 
examination,  for  the  stream  was  a  thin  one  and  did 
no  more  than  trickle  past,  while  Sir  William  weighed 
fifteen  stone,  and  was  so  eminent  that  it  could  never 
inconvenience  him  at  its  deepest.  Dora  detached  her 
gaze  from  the  pictures  and  turned  her  back  upon 
them ;  I  saw  the  measure  of  precaution.  It  was  un- 
availing, however.  "What  have  we  here?"  said 
Sir  William.  Dora  removed  her  person  from  his 
line  of  vision,  and  he  saw  what  we  had  there. 

"  The  work  of  a  friend  of  yours  ?  "  Sir  William 
was  spoken  of  as  a  "  cautious  "  man.  He  had  risen 
to  his  present  distinction  on  stepping-stones  of  mis- 
takes he  conspicuously  had  not  made. 

"  No,"  said  Dora,  "  we  were  wondering  who  the 
artist  could  be." 

Sir  William  looked  at  the  studies,  and  had  a 
happy  thought.  "  If  you  ask  me,  I  should  say  a 
child  of  ten,"  he  said.  He  was  also  known  as  a  man 
of  humor. 

"  Miss  Harris  had  just  remarked  a  certain  im- 
maturity," I  ventured. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Sir  William,  "  this  isn't  the 
Royal  Academy,  is  it?  I  always  say  it's  very  good 
of  people  to  send  their  things  here  at  all.  And  some 
of  them  are  not  half  bad — I  should  call  this  year's 
average  very  high  indeed." 
122 


Tt: 


■^"     "  '"\    t. 


it 


^^m§ 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

"  Arc  you  pleased  with  Uk  ,  Ic^urt  that  has  taken 
your  prize,  Sir  VVilHam?  "  asked  Dora. 

"  I  have  bought  it."  Sir  William's  chest  under- 
went before  our  eyes  an  expansion  of  conscious  vir- 
tue. Living  is  so  expensive  in  Simla;  the  purchase 
of  a  merely  decorative  object  takes  almost  the  pro- 
portion of  an  act  of  religion,  even  by  a  Member  of 
Council  drawing  four  hundred  pounds  a  month. 

"  First-rate  it  is,  first-rate.  Have  you  seen  it? 
'  Our  Camp  in  Tirah.'  Natives  cooking  in  the  fore- 
ground, fellows  standing  about  smoking,  and  a 
whole  pile  of  tinned  stores  dumped  down  in  one  cor- 
ner, exactly  as  they  would  be,  don't  you  know !  Oh, 
I  think  the  Committee  made  a  very  good  choice  in- 
deed, a  very  good  choice." 

Sir  William  moved  on,  and  Dora  was  free  to  send 
me  an  expressive  glance.  "  Isn't  that  just  like  this 
place .'  "  she  demanded.  «  Let  me  see,  the  Viceroy's 
medal,  the  Society's  silver  medal,  five  prizes  from 
Members  of  Council.  Highly  Commended's  as  thick 
as  blackberries,  and  these  perfectly  fresh,  original, 
admu-able  things  completely  ignored.  What  an  ab- 
surd, impossible  corner  of  the  earth  it  is!  " 

"You  look  very  cross,  you  two,"  said  Mrs. 
Smclair,  trailing  past.  "  Come  and  see  the  crazy 
chma  exhibit,  all  made  of  little  bits,  you  know.  They 
say  the  photograph  frames  are  simply  lovely." 

Mrs.  Sinclair's  invitation  was  not  sincere.    Miss 
Harris  was  able  to  answer  it  with  a  laugh  and  a 
'*  123 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

wave.    VVc  remained  beside  the  serious  fact  of  ex- 
hibits 97-103. 

"  Who  are  the  judges  this  j-ear?  "  I  asked,  not 
that  I  did  not  know  precisely  wlio  they  were  Hkely  to 
be.  There  is  a  custom  in  tliese  matters,  and  I  had 
been  part  of  Simla  for  eleven  years. 

Dora  took  the  catalogue  from  my  hand  and 
turned  its  pages  over. 

"  Mr.  Cathcart,  of  course ;  the  Private  Secretary 
to  the  Viceroy  would  be  on  the  Committee  almost  ex 
officio,  wouldn't  he.'  Impossible  to  conceive  a  Pri- 
vate Secretary  to  the  Viceroy  whose  opinion  would 
not  be  valuable  upon  any  head.  The  member  for 
Public  Works — I  suppose  he  can  build  bridges,  or 
could  once,  therefore  he  can  draw,  or  could  once; 
besides,  look  at  his  precedence  and  his  pay !  General 
Haycock — isn't  he  head  of  the  Ordnance  De- 
partment? I  can't  think  of  any  other  reason  for 
putting  him  on.  Oh  yes — he's  a  K.C.B.,  and  he  is 
inventing  a  way  of  taking  colored  photographs. 
Mr.  Tilley,  the  old  gentleman  that  teaches  elemen- 
tary drawing  to  the  little  girls  in  the  diocesan 
school,  that's  all  right.  And  Mr.  Jay,  of  course, 
because  Mr.  Jay's  water-colors  are  the  mainstay  of 
the  exhibition,  and  he  must  be  given  a  chance  of  ex- 
pressing his  opinion  of  them."  She  handed  me  back 
the  catalogue.  "  I  have  never  been  really  angry 
with  them  before,"  she  said. 

"  Are  you  really  angry  now  ?  "  I  asked. 
12-t 


tSii'f 


AN     IJIPOSSIBLE 


IDEAL 


ana  a  .p„.,  ZZ\   ^  t  H,.: J  ^f^^  *--> 
"  more  "  ;n  I       r        .   -^     ^'  *'"^''''  "■"«  somotliinft 

%  no  „oans  unpIeasinR.  ^"*  '"^"^  ""^^ 

^^_JI  must  go  and  see  Lady  Pilke^.,  pi,t„,,^„  J 

"  ^^'"^  "  «"=  "«<=?  "  said  Dora.     "  It's  a  land 
scape  in  o  Is— a  view  of  th„  H"      i 
kandi     T.  It  Himalayas,  near  x\ar- 

kanda.  Tl  ere  are  the  snows  in  the  baekground,  very 
thin  and  visionary  through  »  ,r»„  •  ..  """'^'^'^y 
two  h,ll=  I  •„  °"S"  *  gap  in  tlic  trees,  and 

two  iiUJs,  one  hill  on  each  sirlo      r»    i 

pine-trees,  with  a  dead  onet\he   Jft  foT"  '"'!.' 
covered  with  a  brilliant  red  creepe       R  "f  f 
ground  occupied  by  a. onntainpSjTX 


J^^.'yiliUl^f  cl'^..'-.^  J  -•!  vlB*2 


If 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

native  figure  with  its  back  turned.     Society's  silver 
modal." 

"  When  did  you  see  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  haven't  seen  it — this  year.  But  I  saw  the  one 
she  sent  last,  and  the  one  the  year  before  that. 
You  can  trust  my  memory,  really." 

"  Nc,,"'  I  said,  "  I  can't.  I'm  dining  there  to- 
night.    I  must  have  an  original  impression." 

"  Congratulate  her  on  the  warm  blaze  of  color 
in  the  foreground.  It's  perfectly  safe,"  urged  Miss 
Harris,  but  I  felt  compelled  to  go  myself  to  see  Lady 
Pilkey's  landscape.  When  I  returned  I  found  her 
still  sitting  in  grave  absorption  before  the  studies 
that  nad  taken  us  so  by  surprise.  Her  face  was  full 
of  a  soft  new  light;  I  had  never  before  seen  the 
spring  touched  in  her  that  could  flood  it  like  that. 

"  You  were  very  nearly  right,"  I  announced ; 
"  but  the  blaze  of  color  was  in  the  middle  distance, 
and  there  was  a  torrent  in  the  foreground  that  quite 
put  it  out.  And  the  picture  does  take  the  Society's 
silver  medal." 

"  I  can  not  decide,"  she  replied  without  looking 
at  me,  "  between  the  Kattiawar  fair  thing  and  those 
hills  in  the  rain.  I  can  only  have  one — father  won't 
hear  of  more  than  one." 

"  You  can  have  two,"  I  said  bluntly,  so  deeply 
interested  I  was  in  the  effect  the  things  had  on  her. 
"  And  I  will  have  a  third  for  myself.  I  can't  with- 
stand those  apricot-trees. 

126 


-r*t 


'It' 


3'l.fl?  % 


M  "^ 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

I  thought  there  was  moisture  in  tl,c  eyes  slie 
turned  upon  mo,  an  unusual  thing— a  most  unusual 
thing— in  Dora  Harris;  but  she  winked  it  back,  if 
it  was  there,  too  cjuiciiiy  for  ary  certainty. 

"  You  are  a  dear,"  she  said.  Once  or  twice  be- 
fore she  had  called  me  a  dear.  It  reminded  me,  as 
nothing  else  ever  did,  that  I  was  a  contemporary  of 
her  father's.  It  is  a  feeble  confession,  but  I  have 
known  myself  refrain  from  doing  occasional  agree- 
able things  apprehending  that  she  might  call  me  a 
dear. 


ISf 


CHAPTER    II 


Dora  had  been  out  three  seasons  when  these 
things  happened.  I  remember  sharing  Edward 
Harris's  anxiety  in  no  slight  degree  as  to  how  the 
situation  would  resolve  itself  when  she  came,  the  sit- 
uation consisting  so  considerably  in  his  eyes  of  the 
second  Jlrs.  Harris,  who  had  complicated  it  further 
with  three  little  red-cheeked  boys,  all  of  the  age  to 
be  led  about  the  station  on  very  small  ponies, 
and  not  under  any  circumstances  to  be  allowed 
in  the  drawing-room  when  one  went  to  tea  with  their 
mother.  No  one,  except  perhaps  poor  Ted  himself, 
was  more  interested  than  T  to  observe  how  the  situa- 
tion did  resolve  itself,  in  the  decision  of  Mrs.  Harris 
that  the  boys,  the  two  eldest  at  least,  must  positively 
begin  the  race  for  the  competitive  examinations  of 
the  future  without  further  delay,  and  that  she  must 
as  positively  be  domiciled  in  England  "  to  be  near  " 
them,  at  all  events  until  they  had  well  made  the  start. 
I  should  have  been  glad  to  sec  them  ride  their  ponies 
up  and  down  the  Mall  a  bit  longer,  poor  little  chaps ; 
they  were  still  very  cherubic  to  be  invited  to  take  a 
view  of  competitive  examinations,  however  distant ; 
but  Mrs.  Harris's  conviction  was  not  to  be  overcome. 
128 


*■"- 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

So  thoy  went  home  to  begin,  and  she  went  with  them, 
leaving  Dora  in  possession  of  her  f atlier,  her  father's 
liouse,  ins  pay,  his  precedence,  and  all  that  was  his. 
Not  that  1  would  suggest  any  friction;  I  am  con- 
vinced that  there  was  nothing  lilio  that— at  least, 
nothing  that  met  the  eye,  or  the  ear.    Dora  adored 
the  three  little  boys  and  was  extremely  kind  to  their 
mother.     She  regarded  this  lady,  I  have  reason  to 
believe,  with  the  greatest  indulgence,  and  behaved 
toward  her  with  the  greatest  consideration;  I  mean 
she  had  unerring  intuitions  as  to  just  when,  on  after- 
noons when  Mrs.  Harris  was  at  home  from  dusk  till 
dinner,  she  should  be  dying  for  a  walk.    One  could 
imagine  her  looking  with  her  gray  eyes  at  dear 
mamma's  horizon  and  deciding  that  papa  was  cer- 
tainly not  enough  to  fiil  it  by  liimself,  deciding  at 
the  same  time  that  he  was  never  likely  to  be  ousted 
there,  only  accompanied,  in  a  less  important  and 
entirely  innocent  degree.    It  may  be  surprising  that 
any  one  should  fly  from  so  broad-minded  a  step- 
daughter; but  the  happy  family  party  lasted  a  bare 
three  months.    I  think  Mrs.  Harris  had  a  perception 
she  was  the  kind  of  woman  who  arrived  obscurely 
at  very  correct  conclusions— that  she  was  contribu- 
ting to  her  step-daughter's  amusement  in  a  ...anner 
which  her  most  benevolent  intentions  had  not  con- 
templated, and  she  was  not  by  any  means  the  little 
person  to  go  on  doing  that  indefinitely,  perhaps  in- 
creasingly.   Besides,  it  was  in  the  natural  order  of 
129 


imMify  ^ 


m    ^ 


^m  I: 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

things  that  Dora  should  marry,  and  Mrs.  Harris 
doubtless  foresaw  a  comfortable  return  for  herself  in 
the  course  of  a  year  or  two,  when  the  usual  promising 
junior  in  "  the  Department "  should  gild  his  own 
prospects  and  promote  the  generol  well-being  by  ac- 
quiring its  head  for  a  father-in-law.    Things  always 
worked  out  if  you  gave  them  time.    How  much  time 
you  ought  to  give  them  was  doubtless  by  now  a  pret- 
ty constant  query  with  the  little  lady  in  her  foggy 
exile;  for  two  years  had  already  passed  and  Dora 
had  found  no  connection  with  any  young  man  of  the 
Department  more  permanent  than  those  prescribed 
at  dinners  and  at  dances.    It  is  doubtful,  indeed,  if 
she  had  had  the  opportunity.     There  was  no  abso- 
lute means  of  knowing ;  but  if  offers  were  made  they 
never  transpired,  and  Mrs.  Harris,  far  away  in 
England,  nourished  a  certainty  that  they  never 
were  made.    Speaking  with  her  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  sex  she  declared  that  Dora  frightened  the 
men,  that  her  cleverness  was  of  a  kind  to  paralyze 
any  sentiment  of  the  sort  that  might  be  expected. 
It  depended  upon  Mrs.  Harris's  humor  whether  this 
was  Dora's  misfortune  or  her  crime.     She,  Dora, 
never  frightened  me,  and  by  the  time  her  cleverness 
dawned  upon  me,  my  sentiment  about  her  had  be- 
come too  robust  to  be  paralyzed.    On  the  contrary, 
the  agreeable  stimulus  it  gave  me  was  on";  of  the 
things  I  counted  most  valuable  in  my  life  out  there. 
It  hardly  mattered,  however,  that  I  should  confess 
130 


.%■''    ? 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

tin's ;  I  was  not  a  young  man  in  Harris's  department. 
I  liiid  a  department  o*  inv  ''wn ;  and  Dora,  tliough 
she  frisked  with  me  gli  riously  and  bulUed  me  con- 
tinually, must  ever  have  been  aware  of  the  formida- 
ble fact  that  I  joined  the  Service  two  years  before 
Edward  Harris  did.  The  daughter  of  three  genera- 
tions of  bureaucrats  was  not  likely  to  forget  that  at 
one  time  her  father  had  been  junior  to  me  in  the 
same  office,  though  in  the  course  of  time  and  the 
march  of  opportunity  he  had  his  own  sliow  now,  and 
we  nodded  to  each  other  on  the  Jiall  with  an  equal 
sense  of  the  divine  right  of  secretaries.  It  may  seem 
irrelevant,  but  I  feel  compelled  to  explain  here  that 
I  had  remained  a  bachelor  while  Harris  had  married 
twice,  and  that  I  had  kept  up  my  cricket,  while  Har- 
ris had  let  his  figure  take  all  the  soft  curves  of  mid- 
dle age.  Nevertheless  to  fact  remained.  Some- 
times I  fancied  it  gave  a  certain  piquancy  to  my  re- 
lations with  his  daughter,  but  I  could  never  believe 
that  the  laugh  was  on  my  side. 

If  we  met  at  dinner-parties,  it  would  be  some- 
times Edward  Harris  and  sometimes  myself  who 
would  take  the  dullest  and  stoutest  woman  down. 
If  she  fell  to  him,  the  next  in  precedence  was  be- 
stowed upon  me,  and  there  might  not  be  a  pin  to 
choose  between  them  for  phlegm  and  inflation.  It 
is  a  preposterous  mistake  to  suppose  that  tlie  mar- 
ried ladies  of  Simla  are  in  the  majority  brilliant  and 
fascinating  creatures,  who  say  things  in  French  for 
131 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 


prcntcr  convonipncc,  nnd  lend  a  man  in.  Aftir  fif- 
teen yeiirs  I  am  ready  to  swenr  that  I  have  been  led 
on  to  nothing  more  compromising  than  a  subserip- 
tion  to  the  Young  Women's  Christian  Association, 
though  no  one  could  have  been  more  docile  or  more 
intelligent.  During  one  viceroyalty  of  happy  mem- 
ory half  a  dozen  clever  and  amusing  men  and  women 
came  together  in  Simla — it  was  a  mere  fortuitous 
occurrence,  aided  by  a  joyous  ruler  who  hated  being 
bored  as  none  before  or  since  have  hated  it — and 
the  place  has  lived  socifii'v  upon  the  reputation  of 
that  meteoric  term  ever  _;.:c'e.  Whereas  the  domes- 
tic virtues  arc  no  more  deeply  rooted  anywhere  than 
under  the  deodars;  nor  could  any  one,  I  hasten  to 
add,  chronicle  the  fact  with  more  profound  satisfac- 
tion than  myself.  A  dinner-party,  however,  is  not  a 
favorable  setting  for  the  domestic  virtues;  it  docs 
them  so  little  justice  that  one  could  sometimes  almost 
wish  them  left  at  home,  and  I  was  talking  of  Simla 
dinner-parties,  where  I  have  encountered  so  many. 
How  often  have  I  been  consulted  as  to  the  best  school 
for  boys  in  England,  or  instructed  as  to  how  much 
I  should  let  my  man  charge  me  for  shoe-blacking,  or 
advised  as  to  the  most  effectual  way  of  preventing 
the  butler  from  stealing  my  cheroots,  while  Dora 
Harris,  remote  as  a  star,  talked  to  a  cavalry  subal- 
tern about  wind-galls  and  splints!  At  these  mo- 
ments I  felt  my  seniority  bitterly ;  to  give  Dora  to  a 
cavalry  subaltern  was  such  plain  waste. 
132 


li:  .''- 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

It  was  nn  i.ifiniti-  pleasure  to  know  any  one  as 
well  as  I  secnud  to  know  Dora  Harris.     She,  1  be- 
li<ve,  IkI.I  no  one  else  upon  the  same  terms  of  inti- 
m,u-y,  tlmuKli  she   found  women,   of  course,  witli 
wliom  slie  fluttered  and  embraced;  and  while  there 
were,  naturally,  men  with  whom  I  exchange,!  the 
tmie  o'  day  in  terms  more  or  less  cordial,  I  am  cer- 
tain that  I  kept  all  my  closest  tlioughts  for  her.    It 
IS  necessary  again  to  know  Simla  to  un<ierstand  how 
our  friendship  was  gilded  by  the  consi.leration  that 
It  was  on  both  side,  perfectly  spontaneous.     Social 
life  in  the  poor  little  place  is  almost  a  pure  farce 
witli  the  number  of  its  dictated,  prompted  intima- 
cies, not  controlled  by  general  laws  of  expediency  as 
at  home,  but  each  on  its  own  basis  of  hope  and  ex- 
pectancy, broadly  and  ludicrously  obvious  as  a  cose 
by  itself.    There  is  a  conspiracy  of  stupidity  about 
it,  for  wc  are  all  in  the  same  hat,  every  one  of  us; 
there  is  none  so  exalted  that  he  does  not  urgently 
want  a  post  that  somebody  else  can  give  him.     So 
wc  continue  to  exchange  our  depreciated  smiles,  and 
only  privately  admit  that  the  person  who  most  de- 
sires to  be  agreeable  to  us  is  the  person  whom  wc  re- 
gard with  the  greatest  suspicion.    As  between  Dora 
Harris  and  myself  there  could  be,  naturally,  no  ax 
to  grind.    We  amused  ourselves  by  looking  on  pene- 
tratingly but  tcV^rantly  at  the  grinding  of  other 
people's. 

That  was  a  very  principal  bond  between  us,  that 
133 


.^ij.. 


II 


i 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

uncomproniiaing  cicarncsa  with  which  wc  luulccd  at 
the  place  wo  hvcd  in,  and  on  the  testimony  of  whicli 
wc  were  so  certain  that  wc  didn't  hltc  it.  Tlic  women 
were  nearly  all  so  much  in  heaven  in  Simla,  the  men 
so  well  satisfied  to  be  there  too,  at  the  top  of  the  tree, 
that  our  dissatisfaction  gave  us  to  one  another  the 
merit  of  oriKinnlity,  almost  proved  in  one  .  other  a 
superior  mind.  It  was  not  that  either  of  us  would 
have  preferred  to  grill  out  our  days  in  the  plains; 
we  always  had  a  saving  clause  for  the  climate,  the  al- 
titude, the  scenery ;  it  was  Simla  intrinsic,  Simla  as 
its  other  conditions  made  it,  with  which  we  found 
such  liberal  fault.  Again  I  should  have  to  explain 
Simla,  at  the  length  of  an  essay  at  least,  to  justify 
our  condemnation.  This  difficulty  confronts  me 
everywhere.  I  must  ask  you  instead  to  imagine  a 
small  colony  of  superior — very  superior — officials, 
of  British  origin  and  traditions,  set  on  the  top  of  a 
liill,  years  and  miles  away  from  literature,  music, 
pictures,  politics,  existing  like  a  harem  on  the  gossip 
of  the  Viceroy's  intentions,  and  depending  for 
amusement  on  tennis  and  bumble-puppy,  and  then 
consider,  you  yourself,  whether  you  are  the  sort  of 
person  to  be  unquestionably  happy  there.  If  you 
sec  no  reason  to  the  contrary,  pray  do  not  go  on. 
There  were  times  when  Dora  declared  that  she 
couldn't  breathe  for  want  of  an  atmosphere,  and 
times  when  I  looked  round  and  groaned  at  the  cheer- 
ful congratulatory  aridity  in  every  man's  eye — men 
134 


AN    I JI  POSSIBLE    IDEAL 

wlio  had  done  tilings  at  Oxford  in  my  own  year,  and 
come  out  like  me  to  be  niunm.ified  into  a  lust  stuto 
like  this.  Thank  Heaven,  there  was  never  any 
cheerful  congratulation  in  my  eye;  onu  could  always 
put  there,  when  the  thought  inspired  it,  a  saving 
spark  of  rank  ingratitude  instead. 

It  was  as  if  we  had  the  most  desirable  things- 
roses,  cool  airs,  far  snowy  ranges— to  build  «  hut  we 
liked  with,  and  wc  built  Simla— altitude,  7,000, 
population  2,500,  headquarters  of  the  Government 
of  India  during  the  summer  months.  An  ark  it  was, 
of  course;  an  ark  of  refuge  from  the  horrible  heat 
that  surged  below,  and  I  wondered  as  I  climbed  the 
steeps  of  Summer  Hill  in  search  of  I.  Armour's 
inaccessible  address,  whether  he  was  to  be  the  dove 
'""  ""  'if  "1  testimony  of  a  world  coming  near- 

'■         ''  '•« simile,  however,  as  over-sanguine; 

'•u.  /    r.  .      ung  abandoned  on  our  Ararat. 


135 


M 


CHAPTER    III 

A  DOG  of  no  sort  of  caste  stood  in  the  veranda 
and  barked  at  me  offensively.  I  picked  up  a  stone, 
and  he  vanished  like  the  dog  of  a  dream  into  the 
house.  It  was  such  a  small  house  that  it  wasn't  on 
the  municipal  map  at  all :  it  looked  as  if  some  one 
had  built  it  for  amusement  with  anything  that  was 
lying  about.  Nevertheless,  it  had  a  name,  it  was 
called  Amy  Villa,  freshly  painted  in  white  letters  on 
a  shiny  black  board,  and  nailed  against  the  nearest 
tree  in  the  orthodox  Simla  fashion.  It  looked  as  if 
the  owner  of  the  place  had  named  it  as  a  duty  toward 
his  tenant,  the  board  was  so  new,  and  in  that  case 
the  reflection  presented  itself  that  the  tenant  might 
have  cooperated  to  call  it  something  else.  It  was 
disconcerting  somehow  to  find  that  our  dove  had 
perched,  even  temporarily,  in  Amy  Villa.  Nor  was 
■;t  soothing  to  discover  that  the  small  white  object 
stuck  in  the  comer  of  the  board  was  Mr.  Ingersoll 
Armour's  card. 

In  Simla    we   do   not   stick   our   cards   about 
in  that  way  at  the  mercy  of  the  wind  and  the 
weatlier;  we  paint  our  names  neatly  under  the  names 
136 


mil 


.jk'w- 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE 


IDEAL 


of   our   Jiouscs   with    "  I  r  S  »    <•„,   t    i- 

Service,  or  "  P  W  D  »  f„7p  n-    ,,      '^"'"   ^'''' 
m-nf  /•"'•"•     for  Public  Works  Depart- 

".ent,    or   whatever   designation    we   arc   cntUlVd 
to   ..nmedmtely   after,   so  that  there   can   ho 
mistake       Tl,i«   »t--i  "   ""^   "o 

panics,    pointing;    but    it    is    tl,„         i 

Ul.  wind  I.  „„„„„,  „,„,;     ""  '"  ""l"  "  ""d 

In  reply  he  called  out   «  T),™*  « 

and  I  «ton/.-l    .  1  ,  **  y°"'  Rosario?  " 

and  I  stood  silent,  taken  somewhat  aback. 

Ihcre  was  only  ono  Rosario  in  Simla    „n^  . 
was  a  subordinate  in  my     wn  offil       7 
hateful    need    tn  ,  ^-      "^Saui  the 

clerks  and  t     ,     ^P^'"-      ^^^'^^-^^    subordinate 
clerks  and  officials  in  Simla  there  is  a  greater  gulf 

"°  had  a  plain  strain  of  what  we  call  "the 
137 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 


III: 


country  "  in  him,  a  plain  strain,  that  is,  of  the 
color  of  the  country.  It  was  certainly  the  first  time 
in  my  official  career  that  I  had  been  mistaken  for 
Rosario. 

Armour  turned  round  and  saw  me — that  I  was 
a  stranger. 

He  got  up  at  once.  "  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I  thought 
it  was  Rosario." 

"  It  isn't,"  I  replied,  "  my  name  is  Philips. 
May  I  ask  whether  you  were  expecting  Mr, 
Rosario.''     I  can  come  again,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.  Sit  down.  He  may 
drop  in  or  he  may  not — I  rather  thought  he  would 
to-day.  It's  a  pull  up,  isn't  it,  from  the  Mall? 
Have  a  whisky-and-soda." 

I  stood  on  the  threshold  spellbound.  It  was 
just  the  smell  that  bound  me,  the  good  old  smell  of 
oil  paints  and  turpentine  and  mediums  and  varnish 
and  new  canvas  that  you  never  by  any  chance  put 
your  nose  into  in  any  part  of  Asia.  It  carried  me 
back  twenty  years  to  old  haunts,  old  friends,  old 
joys,  ideals,  theories.  Ah,  to  be  young  and  have  a 
temperament !  For  I  had  one  then — that  instant  in 
Armour's  veranda  proved  it  to  me  forever. 

"  No,  thanks,"  I  said.  "  If  you  don't  mind  I'll 
just  have  the  smell." 

The  young  fellow  knew  at  once  that  I  liked 
the  smell.  "  Well,  have  a  chair,  anyhow,"  he  said, 
and  took  one  himself  and  sat  down  opposite 
138 


mzr^'^rtw^Ti. 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

.til."  "jTu  '"'"'''"  ^  ■"''''  "  '^  ^°^  "  "''""'<=  I  »it 
still  and  look  round?  " 

He  understood  again. 

"  I  haven't  brought  much,"  he  said,  « I  left 
pretty  near  everything  in  Paris." 

"  You  have  brought  a  world."  Then  after  a 
moment,  "Did  you  do  that.'"  I  „sked,  nodding 
toward  a  canvas  tacked  against  the  wall.  It  was 
the  head  of  a  half-veiled  Arab  woman  turned  away. 

shad       .rt"'"/"'  '"  *'"=  *"'""'"S  away,  and  the 
shadow  the  head-covering  made  over  the  cheek  and 

"Lord,  no!  That's  Dagnan  Bouverct.  I  used 
to  take  my  things  to  him,  and  one  day  he  gave  me 
that,  lou  have  an  eye,"  he  added,  but  without 
patronage.  "  It's  the  best  thing  I've  got." 
I  felt  the  warmth  of  an  old  thrill. 
"  Once  upon  a  time,"  I  said,  «  I  was  allowed  to 
have  an  eye."  The  wine,  untasted  all  those  years, 
went  to  my  head.  "  That's  a  vigorous  bit  above,': 
1  continued. 

"Oh  well!  It  isn't  really  up  to  much,  you 
know.  It's  Uosario's.  He  photographs  mostly, 
out  he  has  a  notion  of  color." 

"Really.?  "  said  I,  thinking  with  regard  to  my 
eye  that  the  sun  of  that  atrocious  country  had  put 
'tout.     "I  expect  I've  lost  it,"  I  said  aloud. 
139 


WW' 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

"  Your  eye?  Oh,  you'll  easily  get  a  fresh  one. 
Do  you  go  home  for  the  exhibitions?  " 

"  I  did  once,"  I  confessed.  "  My  first  leave. 
A  kind  of  paralysis  overtakes  one  here.  Last  time 
I  went  for  the  grouse." 

He  glanced  at  nic  with  his  light  clear  eyes  as  if 
for  the  first  time  he  encountered  a  difficulty. 

"  It's  a  magnificent  country  for  painting,"  he 
said. 

"  Bi't  .  ot  for  pictures,"  I  rejoined.  He  paid 
no  attention,  staring  at  the  ground  and  twisting 
one  end  of  his  mustache. 

"  The  sun  on  those  old  marble  tombs — broad 
sun  and  sand " 

"  You  mean  somewhere  about  Delhi." 

"  I  couldn't  get  anywhere  near  it."  He  was 
not  at  that  moment  anywhere  near  me.  "  But  I 
have  thought  out  a  trick  or  two — I  mean  to  have 
another  go  when  it  cools  off  again  Jown  there." 
He  returned  with  a  smile,  and  I  saw  hew  delicate 
his  face  was.  The  smile  turned  down  with  a  little 
gentle  mockery  in  its  lines.  I  had  seen  that  par- 
ticular smile  only  on  the  faces  of  one  or  two  beauti- 
ful women.  It  had  a  borrowed  air  upon  a  man,  hke 
a  tiara  or  an  earring. 

"  There's  plenty  to  paint,"  he  said,  looking  at 
me  with  an  air  of  friendly  speculation. 

"  Indeed,  yes.     And  it  has  never  been   done. 
We  are  sure  it  has  never  been  done." 
liO 


m  '  -!f  iCJHtaJH  MiinHiPL^ji^;^«fli^is^'  Mierwm&amM 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

"  '  Wc  ' — you  mean  people  generally?  " 

"  Not  at  all.     I  mean  Miss  Harris,  Miss  Harris 
and  myself." 

"  Your  daughter?  " 

"  My  name  is  Philips,"  I  reminded  him  pleas- 
antly, rei.,. inhering  that  the  intelligence  of  clever 
people  is  often  limited  to  a  single  ait.  "  Miss  Har- 
ris is  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Edward  Harris,  Secre- 
tary to  the  Government  of  India  in  (he  Legislative 
Department.  She  is  fond  of  pictures.  We  have  a 
good  many  tastes  in  common.  We  have  always 
suspected  that  India  had  never  been  painted,  an.l 
when  we  saw  your  things  at  the  Town  Hall  we 
Knew  it." 

His  queer  eyes  dilated,  and  he  blushed. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  it's  only  one  interpretation. 
It  all  depends  on  what  a  fellow  sees.  No  fellow 
can  see  everything." 

"Till  you  came,"  I  insisted,  "  nobody  had  seen 
anything." 

He  shook  his  head,  but  I  could  read  in  his  face 
that  this  was  not  news  to  him. 

"  That  is  mainly  what  I  came  up  to  tell  you,"  I 
continued,  "  to  beg  that  you  will  go  on  and  on.  To 
hope  that  you  will  stay  a  long  time  and  do  a  great 
deal.  It  is  such  an  extraordinary  chance  that  any 
one  should  turn  up  who  can  say  what  the  country 
really  means." 

He  stuck  his  hands  in  his  pockets  with  a  restive 
141 


mi- 
ii'i 


t;    .j 


i1? 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

movement.  "  Oh,  don't  make  me  feci  responsible," 
he  said,  "  I  hate  that " ;  and  then  suddenly  he  re- 
membered his  manners.  "  But  it's  certainly  nice  of 
you  to  think  so,"  he  added. 

There  was  something  a  little  unusual  in  his  in- 
flc    'in  which  led  me  to  ask  at  this  point  whether  he 
wa.  an  American,  and  to  discover  that  he  came  from 
somewhere  in  Wisconsin,  not  directly,  but  by  way 
of  a  few  years  in  London  and  Paris.     This  ac- 
counted in  a  way  for  the  effect  of  freedom  in  any 
fortune  about  him  for  which  I  already  liked  him, 
and  perhaps  partly  for  the  look  of  unembarrassed 
inquiry  and  experiment  which  sat  so  lightly  in  his 
unUned  face.     He  came,  one  realized,  out  of  the 
fermentation  of  new  conditions ;  he  never  could  have 
been  the  product  of  our  limits  and  systems  and 
classes  in  England.    His  surroundings,  his  "things," 
as  he  called  them,  were  as  old  as  the  sense  of  beauty, 
but  he  seemed  simply  to  have  put  them  where  he 
could  sec  them,  there  was  no  pose  in  their  arrange- 
ment.    They  were  all  good,  and  his  delight   in 
them  was  plain ;  but  he  was  evidently  in  no  sense  a 
connoisseur  beyond  that  of  natural  instinct.     Some 
of  those  he  had  picked  up  in  India  I  could  tell  him 
about,  but  I  had  no  impression  that  he  would  re- 
member what  I   said.      There  was   one   Bokhara 
tapestry  I  examined  with  a  good  deal  of  interest. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  they  told  me  I  shouldn't  get 
anything  as  good  as  that  out  here,  so  I  brought  it," 
142 


nzrtiBf^:M'' '".'*, 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

but  I  Imd  to  explain  to  liim  wliy  it  was  anomalous 
that  this  should  he  so. 

"  It  eiiinp  a  good  many  miles  over  desert  from 
somewhere,"  he  remarked,  as  I  made  a  note  of  in- 
quiry as  to  the  present  direetion  of  trade  in  woven 
goods  from  Persia,  "  I  had  to  pound  it  for  a  week 
to  get  tiic  dust  out." 

We  spent  an  hour  looking  over  work  he  had  done 
down  in  the  plains,  and  then  I  took  my  leave.  It 
did  not  occur  to  mc  at  the  moment  to  ask  Armour 
to  come  to  the  club  or  to  offer  to  do  anything  for 
him ;  all  the  hospitality,  all  that  was  worth  offering 
seemed  so  much  more  at  his  disposition  than  at  mine. 
I  only  asked  if  I  might  come  again,  mentioning 
somewhat  shyly  that  I  must  have  the  opportunity  of 
adding,  at  my  leisure,  to  those  of  his  pictures  that 
were  already  mine  by  transaction  with  the  secretary 
of  the  Art  Exhibition.  I  left  him  so  astonished  that 
this  had  happened,  so  plainly  pleased,  that  I  was 
certain  he  had  never  sold  anything  before  in  his  life. 
This  impression  gave  me  the  uplifted  joy  of  a  dis- 
coverer to  add  to  the  satisfactions  I  had  already 
drawn  from  the  afternoon ;  and  I  almost  bounded 
down  the  hill  to  the  Mall.  I  left  the  pi  dog  barking 
in  the  veranda,  and  I  met  Mr.  Rosario  coming  up, 
but  in  my  unusual  elation  I  hardly  paused  to  con- 
sider either  of  them  further. 

The  mare  and  her  groom  were  waiting  on  the 
Mall,  and  it  was  only  when  I  got  on  her  back  that 
143 


I     I 


I 


«l 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

the  consciousness  visited  me  of  something  forgotten. 
It  was  my  mission — to  propose  to  take  Armour,  if 
he  were  "  possible,"  to  call  riion  the  Harrises.  Oh, 
well,  he  was  possible  enough;  I  supposed  he  pos- 
sessed a  coat,  though  he  hadn't  been  wearing  it ;  and 
I  could  arrange  it  by  letter.  Meanwhile,  as  was  only 
fair,  I  turned  the  mare  in  the  direction  of  the  draw- 
ing-room where  I  had  reason  to  believe  that  Miss 
Dora  Harris  was  quenching  her  impatience  in  tea. 


144 


CHAPTER    IV 

The  very  next  morning  I  met  Armour  on  my 
way  to  office.  He  was  ambling  along  on  the  leanest 
and  most  ill-groomed  of  Irnzuur  ponies,  and  lie  wore 
a  bowler.  In  Simla  sun  hats  are  admissible,  straw 
hats  are  presentable,  and  soft  felt  hats  are  superior, 
but  you  must  not  wear  a  bowler.  I  might  almost  say 
that  if  one's  glance  falls  upon  a  bowler,  one  hardly 
looks  further;  the  expectation  of  finding  an  ac- 
quaintance under  it  is  so  vain.  In  this  instance,  I 
did  look  further,  fortunately,  though  in  doing  so  I 
was  compelled  to  notice  that  the  bowler  was  not  lifted 
in  answer  to  my  salutation.  Of  no  importance  in 
itself,  of  course,  but  betraying  in  Armour  a  certain 
lack  of  observation.  I  felt  the  Departmental  Head 
crumble  in  me,  however,  as  I  recognized  him,  and  1 
pulled  the  marc  up  in  a  manner  which  she  plainly 
resented.  It  was  my  opportunity  to  do  cautiously . 
and  delicately  what  I  had  omitted  the  afternoon 
before ;  but  my  recollection  is  that  I  was  very  clumsy. 

I  said  something  about  the  dust,  and  he  said 
something  about  the  glare,  and  then  I  could  think 
of  nothing  better  than  to  ask  him  if  he  wouldn't  like 
to  meet  a  few  Simla  people. 

lis 


^r  4^  ^  lif    w 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 


m 


"  Oh,  I  know  lots  of  people,  thanks,"  he  said. 
"  It's  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it,  all  the  same,  but  I've 
got  an^  amount  of  friinds  here." 

I  thouglit  of  Air.  liosurio,  and  stood,  or  sat,  con- 
founded. 

The  mare  fidgeted ;  I  knocked  a  beast  of  a  fly  off 
her,  and  so  gained  time. 

"  This  is  my  second  season  up  here,  you  know." 

"  Your  second  season  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Where 
on  earth  have  you  been  hiding?  " 

"  Well,  I  didn't  exhibit  last  year,  you  sec.  I'd 
heard  it  was  a  kind  of  a  toy  show,  so  I  thought  I 
wouldn't.  I  think  now  that  was  foolish.  But  I  got 
to  know  quite  a  number  of  families." 

"  But  I  am  sure  there  are  numbers  that  you 
hoven't  met,"  I  urged,  "  or  I  should  have  heard  of 
it." 

He  glanced  at  me  with  a  slight  flush.  "  If  you 
mean  society  people,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  care  about 
that  kind  of  thing,  Mr.  Pliilips.  I'm  not  adapted  to 
it,  and  I  don't  want  to  be.  If  any  one  offered  to  in- 
troduce me  to  the  Viceroy,  I  would  ask  to  be  ex- 
cused." 

"  Oh,  the  Viceroy,"  I  r^^ponded,  disrespectful- 
ly, "  is  neither  here  nor  there.  But  there  are  some 
people,  friends  of  my  own,  who  would  like  very 
much  to  meet  you." 

"  By  the  name  of  Harris?  "  he  asked.    I  was  too 
amazed  to  do  anything  but  nod.    By  the  name  of 
146 


f,  iva, 


■«*.l 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAt 

Harris !  The  Secretary  of  tlie  Government  of  India 
>ii  tlie  LcRisltttivc  Department !  The  expression,  not 
used  as  an  invocation,  was  inexcusable. 

"  I  remember  >ou  mentioned  them  yesterday." 
"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  there's  a  fatiier  an.i  daughter. 
Jliss  Harris  i.s  very  artistic." 

His  face  clouded,  as  well  it  might,  at  the  word. 
"  Does  she  paint?  •'  he  asked,  so  apprehensively  that 
I  could  not  forbear  a  smile  at  Dora's  expense.  I 
could  assure  him  that  she  did  not  paint,  that  she  had 
not  painted,  at  all  events,  for  years,  and  presently  I 
found  myself  in  the  ridiculous  position  of  using  ar- 
gument to  bring  a  young  man  to  the  Harrises.  In 
the  end  I  prevailed,  I  know,  out  of  sheer  good  nature 
on  Armour's  part;  he  was  as  innocent  as  a  baby  of 
any  sense  of  opportunity. 

We  arranged  it  for  the  following  Friday,  but  as 
luck  would  have  it,  His  Excellency  sent  for  mc  at 
the  very  hour;  we  met  the  messenger.  I  felt  myself 
unlucky,  but  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  that 
Armour  should  go  alone,  which  he  did,  with 
neither  diffidence  nor  alacrity,  but  as  if  it  were  all 
in  the  day's  work,  and  he  had  no  reason  to  be  dis- 
obliging. 

The  files  were  very  heavy  during  the  succeeding 
fortnight,  and  the  Viceroy  quite  importunate  in  his 
demand  for  my  valuable  suggestions.  I  was  worked 
off  my  legs,  and  two  or  ll.ree  times  was  obliged  to 
deny  myself  in  replying  to  notes  from  Dora  suggcst- 
li7 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 


It 


ing  Sunday  breakfast  or  afternoon  tco.    Finally,  I 
sliook  myself  free ;  it  wo»  tlic  day  itlie  wrote : 

"  You  must  come — 1  can't  keep  it  to  myself  any 
longer." 

I  half  thought  Armour  would  be  tlicrc,  but  he 
wasn't ;  that  is,  he  was  absent  corporeally,  but  the 
spirit  and  expression  of  him  littered  every  conve- 
nient part.  Some  few  things  lay  about  that  I  had 
seen  in  the  studio,  to  call  it  so,  but  most  of  the  little 
wooden  panels  looked  fresh,  almost  wet,  and  the  air 
held  strongly  the  fragrance  of  Armour's  north  ve- 
randa. In  one  corner  there  used  to  be  a  Madonna 
on  a  carved  easel;  the  Madonna  stood  on  the  floor, 
and  the  easel  with  working  pegs  in  it  held  an  unfin- 
ished canvas.  Dora  sat  in  the  midst  with  a  distinct 
flush — she  was  inclined  to  be  sallow — ond  made  me 
welcome  in  terms  touched  with  extravagance.  She 
did  not  rush,  however,  upon  the  matter  that  was 
dyeing  her  cheeks,  and  I  showed  myself  as  little  im- 
petuous. She  poured  out  the  tea,  and  we  sat  there 
inhaling,  as  it  were,  the  aroma  of  the  thing,  while 
keeping  it  consciously  in  the  background. 

I  imagine  there  was  no  moment  in  the  time  I 
describe  when  we  enjoyed  IngersoU  Armour  so  much 
as  at  this  one,  when  he  lay  in  his  nimbus  half  known 
and  wholly  suppressed,  between  us.  There  were 
later  instances,  perhaps,  of  deeper  satisfaction,  but 
they  were  more  or  less  perplexed,  and  not  unob- 
scured  by  anxiety.  That  afternoon  it  was  all  to 
148 


AN     I  .M  P  O  S  S  I  B  L  li     IDEAL 

know  and  to  be  cxpcrivnccd,  with  juat  a  delicious 
ion  tiiste. 

I  KJiid  soniutliinff  presently  about  I.ady  I*ilkey'« 
picnic  on  tlie  morrow,  to  wliicli  we  liiul  botli  been 
bidden. 

"  Simll  I  call  for  you?  "  1  a»ked.  "  You  will 
ride,  of  course." 

'•  Thanks,  but  I've  cried  off — I'm  Roinf;  sketch- 
ing." Her  eyes  plainly  added,  "  with  Ingersoll  Ar- 
mour," but  she  as  obviously  shrunk  from  the  rough- 
ness of  |)itching  him  in  thut  unconsidered  w  ay  before 
us.  For  some  reason  I  refrained  from  taking  the 
cue.     I  would  not  lug  him  in  either. 

"  That  is  a  new  accomplishment,"  was  as  much 
as  I  felt  I  could  say  with  dignit3',  and  she  respond- 
ed: 

"Yes.  isn't  it.'" 

I  felt  some  slight  indignation  on  Lady  Pilkcy's 
account.  "  Do  you  really  think  you  ought  to  do 
things  like  that  at  the  eleventh  hour?  "  I  asked,  but 
Dora  smiled  at  a  glance,  the  hypocrisy  out  of  my 
face. 

"  What  does  anything  matter?  "  she  demanded. 

I  knew  perfectly  well  the  standard  by  which 
nothing  mattered,  and  there  was  no  use,  of  course, 
in  going  on  pretending  that  I  did  not. 

"  I  assured  him  that  you  didn't  paint,"  I  said, 
accusingly. 

"  Oh,  I  had  to — otherwise  what  was  there  to  go 
149 


^J 


■"3.'*-- 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 


i 


upon?  He  would  have  been  found  only  to  be  lost 
again.  You  did  not  contemplate  that  ?  "  Miss  Har- 
ris inquired  sweetly. 

"  I  should  have  thought  it  was  the  surest  way  of 
losing  him." 

"  I  can't  think  why  you  should  be  so  rude.  He 
observes  progress  already." 

"  With  a  view  to  claiming  and  holding  him, 
would  it  be  of  any  use,"  I  asked,  "  for  me  to  start 
in  oils.?" 

Miss  Harris  eyed  me  calmly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "  but  it  doesn't  seem 
the  same  thing  somehow.  I  think  you  had  better 
leave  it  to  me." 

"  Indeed,  I  won't,"  I  said ;  "  there  is  too  much  in 
it,"  and  we  smiled  across  the  gulf  of  our  friendly 
understanding. 

I  crossed  to  the  mantelpiece  and  picked  up  one 
of  the  little  wet  panels.  There  was  that  in  it  which 
explained  my  friend's  exultation  much  more  plainly 
than  words. 

"  That  is  what  I  am  to  show  him  to-morrow,"  she 
explained ;  "  I  think  I  have  done  as  he  told  me.  I 
think  it's  pretty  right." 

Whether  it  was  pretty  right  or  pretty  wrong, 
she  had  taken  in  an  extraordinary  way  an  essence 
out  of  him.  It  wasn't  of  course  good,  but  his  feel- 
ing was  reflected  in  it,  at  once  so  brilliantly  and  so 
profoundly  that  it  was  startling  to  see. 
150 


W-  i 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

"Do  you  think  he'll  be  pleased?"  she  asked, 
anxiously. 

"  I  think  he'll  be  astounded,"  I  said,  reserving 
the  rest,  and  she  cried  in  her  pleasure,  "  Oh,  you 
dear  man ! " 

"  I  see  you  have  taken  possession  of  him,"  I 
went  on. 

"Ah,  body  and  soul,"  Dora  rejoined,  and  it 
must  have  been  somi'"iing  like  that.  I  could  imag- 
ine how  she  did  it ;  with  what  wiles  of  simplicity  and 
candid  good-fellowship  she  had  drawn  him  to  for- 
getfulncss  and  response,  and  how  presently  his  en- 
thusiasm leaped  up  to  answer  hers  and  they  had  been 
caught  altogether  out  of  the  plane  of  common  rela- 
tions, and  he  had  gone  away  on  that  disgraceful 
bazaar  pony  with  a  ratified  arrangement  to  return 
next  day  which  had  been  almost  taken  for  granted 
from  the  beginning. 

I  confess,  though  I  had  helped  to  bring  it  about, 
the  situation  didn't  altogether  please  me.  I  did  not 
dream  of  foolish  dangers,  but  it  seemed  to  take  a 
little  too  much  for  granted ;  I  found  myself  inward- 
ly demanding  whether,  after  all,  a  vivid  capacity 
to  make  color  conscious  was  a  sufficient  basis  on  which 
to  bring  to  Edward  Harris's  house  a  young  man 
about  whom  we  knew  nothing  whatever  else.  An 
instant's  regard  showed  the  scruple  fraudulent, 
it  fled  before  the  rush  of  pleasure  with  which 
1  gazed  at  the  tokens  he  had  left  behind  him.  I  fell 
151 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 


back  on  my  wonder,  which  was  great,  that  Dora 
should  have  possessed  the  technique  necessary  to 
take  him  at  a  point  where  he  could  give  her  so  much 
that  was  valuable. 

"  Oh,  well,"  she  said  when  I  uttered  it,  "  you 
know  I  made  the  experiment !  I  found  out  in  South 
Kensington — you  can  learn  that  much  there — that 
I  never  would  be  able  to  paint  well  enough  to  make 
it  worth  while.  So  I  dropped  it  and  took  a  more 
general  line  toward  life.  But  I  find  it  very  easy  to 
imagine  myself  dedicated  to  that  particular  one 
again." 

"  You  never  told  me,"  I  said.  Why  had  I  been 
shut  out  of  that  experience? 

"  I  tell  you  now,"  Dora  replied,  absently, "  when 
I  am  able  to  offer  you  the  fact  with  illustrations." 
She  laughed  and  dropped  a  still  illuminated  face  in 
the  palm  of  her  hand.  "  He  has  wonderfully  re- 
vived me,"  she  declared.  "  I  could  throw,  honestly, 
the  whole  of  Simla  overboard  for  this." 

"  Don't,"  I  urged,  feeling,  suddenly,  an  inte- 
gral part  of  Simla. 

"  Oh,  no — what  end  would  be  served.'  But  I 
don't  care  who  knows,"  she  went  on  with  a  rush, 
"  that  in  all  life  this  is  what  I  like  best,  and  people 
like  Mr.  Armour  are  the  people  I  value  most.  Heav- 
ens, how  few  of  them  there  are !  And  wherever  they 
go  how  the  air  clears  up  round  them !  It  makes 
n.e  quite  ill  to  think  of  the  life  we  lead  here 
152 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

—the  poverty  of  it,  the  preposterous  dulness  of 
it.  .  .  .» 

"  For  goodness'  sake,"  I  said,  obscurely  irritated, 
"  don't  quote  the  bishop.  The  life  holds  whatever 
we  put  into  it." 

"  For  other  people  it  does,  and  for  us  it  holds 
what  other  people  put  into  it,"  she  retorted.  "  I 
don't  know  whether  you  think  it's  adequately  filled 
with  gold  lace  and  truffles." 

"  Why  should  I  defend  it?  "  I  asked,  not  know- 
ing indeed  why.  "  But  it  has  perhaps  a  dignity, 
you  know.  Ah,  you  are  too  fresh  from  your  bap- 
tism, '  I  continued,  as  she  shook  her  head  and  went 
to  the  piano.  The  quality,  whatever  it  was,  that  the 
last  fortnight  had  generated  in  her,  leaped  from  her 
fingers;  she  played  with  triumph,  elation,  intention.  ^ 
The  notes  seemed  an  outlet  for  the  sense  of  beauty  ' 
and  for  power  to  make  it.  I  had  never  heard  her 
play  like  that  before. 

It  occurred  to  me  to  ask  when  she  had  done,  how 
far,  after  a  fortnight,  she  could  throw  light  on  Ar- 
mour's aims  and  history,  where  he  had  come  from, 
and  the  great  query  with  which  we  first  received  him, 
what  he  could  be  doing  in  Simla.  I  gathered  that 
she  had  learned  practically  nothing,  and  had  hardly 
concerned  herself  to  learn  anything.  What  differ- 
ence did  it  make?  she  asked  me.  Why  should  we 
inquire  ?  Why  tack  a  theory  of  origin  to  a  phenom- 
enon of  joy  ?  Let  us  say  the  wind  brought  him,  and 
153 


m 


Mm 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

build  him  a  temple.  She  was  very  whimsical  up  to 
the  furthest  stretch  of  what  could  possibly  be  con- 
sidered tea-time.  When  I  went  away  I  saw  her  go 
again  and  sit  down  at  the  piano.  In  the  veranda  I 
remembered  something,  stopped,  and  went  back.  I 
had  to  go  back.  "  You  did  not  tell  m","  1  said, 
"  when  he  was  coming  again." 

"  Oh,  to-morrow — to-morrow,  of  course."  Dora 
paused  to  replj-. 

I  resented,  as  I  made  my  waj'  to  the  Club,  the 
weight  of  official  duties  that  made  it  so  impossible 
for  me  to  keep  at  all  closely  in  touch  with  this  young 


154 


jRM^^'&m/i^W 


TT\ 


CHAPTER    V 


m 
■It 


The  art  of  the  photographer   usually  arouses 
m  me  all  that  is  splenetic,  and  I  had  not  submitted 
myself  to  him  for  years  before  Dora  made  such  a 
preposterous  point  of  it— years  in  which,  as  I  sadly 
explained  to  her,  I  might  have  submitted  to  the 
ordeal  with  much  more  "  pleasing  "  results.    She  had 
often  insisted  before,  but  1  could  never  sec  that  she 
made  out  a  particularly  good  case  for  the  operation 
until  one  afternoon  when  she  showed  me  the  bold 
counterfeit  presentment  of  an  Assistant  Adjutant- 
General  or  some  such  person,  much  flattered  as  to 
features  but  singularly  faithful  in  its  reproduction 
of  the  straps  and  buttons  attached.     To  my  post 
also  there  belongs  a  uniform  and  a  cocked  hat  suffi- 
ciently dramatic,  but  persons  who  serve  the  State 
primarily  with  tlic  intelligence  are  supposed  to  have 
a  mind  above  buttons ;  and  when  I  decided  that  my 
photograph  should  compete  with  the  Assistant  Ad- 
jutant-General's, I  gave  him  every  sartorial  advan- 
tage.    I  gathered  that  the  offer,  cabinet  size,  of  this 
gentleman  had  been  a  spontaneous  one;  that  cer- 
tainly could  not  be  said  of  mine.    Most  unwillingly 
I  turned  one  morning  into  KaufFer's;  and  I  can  not 
155 


11 


■'lJ'>.iL«iA-     J^\W\ 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

now  imagine  why  I  did  it,  for  emulation  of  the  As- 
sistant Adjutant-General  was  really  not  motive 
enough,  unless  it  was  with  an  instinct  prepared  to 
stumble  upon  matter  germane  in  an  absurd  degree 
to  this  little  history. 

I  had  the  honor  to  be  subjected  to  the  searching 
analysis  of  Mr.  KaufFcr  himself.     It  was  he  who 
placed  the  chair  and  arranged  the  screw,  he  who 
fixed  the  angle  of  my  chin  and  gently  disposed  my 
fingers  on  my  knee.     He  gave  me,  I  remember,  a 
recent  portrait  of  the  Viceroy  to  fix  my  eye  upon, 
doubtless  with  the  purpose  of  inspiring  my  coun- 
tenance with  the  devotion  which  would  sit  suitably 
upon  one  of  His  Excellency's  slaves,  and  when  it  was 
all  over  he  conducted  me  into  another  apartment  in 
order  that  I  might  see  the  very  latest  viceregal  group 
— a  domestic  one,  including  the  Staff.    The  walls  of 
the  room  contained  what  is  usually  there,  the  en- 
larged photograph,  the  colored  photograph,  the  am- 
ateur theatrical  group,  the  group  of  His  Excel- 
lency's Executive  Council,  the  native  digriitary  with 
a  diamond-tipped  aigrette  in  the  front  of  his  tur- 
ban.   The  copy  in  oils  of  some  old  Italian  landscape, 
very  black  and  yellow,  also  held  its  invariable  place, 
and  above  it,  very  near  the  ceiling,  a  line  of  canvases 
which,  had  I  not  been  led  past  them  to  inspect  our 
ruler  and  his  family,  who  sat  transfixed  on  an  easel 
in  a  resplendent  frame,  would  probably  have  escaped 
my  attention.     I  did  proper  homage  to  the  easel, 
156 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 
and  then  turned  to  these  pictures.     It  was  plain 
enough  who  had  painted  them.     Armour's  broad 
brush  stood  out  all  over  them.     They  were  mostly 
Indian  sporting  subjects,  the  incident  a  trifle  ellip- 
tical, the  drawing  unequal,  but  the  verve  and  feeling 
unmistakable,  and  color  to  send  a  quiver  of  glorious 
acquiescence  through  you  like  a  pang.     What  as- 
tonished me  was  the  number  of  them;  there  must 
have  been  at  least  a  dozen,  all  the  same  size  and 
shape,  all  hanging  in  a  line  of  dazzling  repetition. 
Here  then  was  the  explanation  of  Armour's  seeming 
curious  lack  of  output,  and  plain  denial  of  the  sup- 
position that  he  spent  the  whole  of  his  time  in  doing 
the  httle  wooden  "  pochade  "  things  whose  sweetness 
and  delicacy  had  so  feasted  our  eyes  elsewhere.    It 
was  part,  no  doubt,  of  his  absolutely  uncommercial 
nature— we  had  experienced  together  passages  of 
the  keenest  embarrassment  over  my  purchase  of  some 
of  Ill's  studies— that  he  had  not  mentioned  these  more 
serious  things  exposed  at  Kauffer's:  one  had  the 
feeling  of  coming   unexpectedly  on  treasure   left 
upon  the  wayside  and  forgotten. 

"  Hullo!  "  1  said,  at  a  standstill,  "  I  see  you've 
got  some  of  Jlr.  Armour's  work  there." 

Mr.  Kauffer,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  made 
the  sound  which  has  its  counterpart  in  a  shru". 
"  Yass,"  he  said,  "  I  haf  some  of  Mr.  Armour"s 
work  there.  This  one,  that  one,  all  those  remaining 
pictures— they  are  all  the  work  of  Mr.  Armour." 
157 


M  f        ■'*'W 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

"  I  didn't  know  that  any  of  his  things  were  to  be 
seen  outside  his  studio,"  I  observed. 

"  So?  They  are  to  be  seen  here.  There  is  no 
objection." 

"Why  should  there  be  any  objection?"  I  de- 
manded, slightly  nettled.  "  People  must  see  them 
before  they  buy  them." 

"  Buy  them !  "  Kauff cr's  tone  was  distinctly  ex- 
asperated. "Who  will  buy  those  pictures?  No- 
body.   They  are  all,  every  one  of  them  to  refuse." 

"  If  you  know  Mr.  Armour  well  enough,"  I  said, 

"  you  should  advise  him  to  exhibit  some  of  his  local 

studies  and  sketches  here.    They  might  sell  better." 

My  words  seemed  unfortunately  chosen.     Mr. 

KaufFer  turned  an  honest  angry  red. 

"  Do  I  not  know  Mr.  Armour  well  enough — und 
better !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  What  this  man  wass  doing 
when  I  in  Paris  find  him  oudt?  Shtarving,  mein 
Gott!  I  see  his  work.  I  see  he  paint  a  vei- goot 
horse,  very  goot  animal  subject.  I  bring  him  oudt 
on  contract,  five  hundred  rupees  the  monnth  to  paint 
for  me,  for  my  firm.  Sir,  it  is  now  nine  monnth.  I 
am  yoost  four  tousand  ,"■  e  hundred  rupees  out  of 
my  pocket  by  this  gentleman !  " 

To  enable  me  to  cope  with  this  astonishing  tale 
I  asked  Mr.  Kauffcr  for  a  chair,  which  he  oblig- 
ingly gave  mc,  and  begged  that  he  also  would  be 
seated.  The  files  at  my  office  were  my  business,  and 
this  was  not,  but  no  matter  of  Imperial  concern 
158 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

seemed  ot  the  moment  half  so  urgently  to  require 
probinpf.  "  Surely,"  I  said,  "  that  is  nn  unusual 
piece  of  enterprise  for  a  photofrraphic  firm  to  em- 
})loy  an  artist  to  paint  on  a  salary.  I  don't  know 
even  a  regular  dealer  who  does  it." 

Jlr.  KaufFer  at  once  and  frankly  explained.  It 
was  unusual  and  entirely  out  of  the  regular  line  of 
business.  It  was,  in  fact,  one  of  the  exceptional 
forms  of  enterprise  inspired  in  this  country  by  the 
native  prince.  We  who  had  to  treat  with  the  native 
prince  solely  on  lofty  political  lines  were  hardly 
likely  to  remember  how  largely  he  bulked  in  the 
humbler  relations  of  trade ;  but  there  was  more  than 
one  Calcutta  establishment,  Mr.  Kauffer  declared, 
that  would  he  obliged  to  put  up  its  shutters  without 
this  inconstant  and  difficult,  but  liberal  customer.  I 
waited  with  impatience.  I  could  not  for  the  life  of 
me  see  Armour's  connection  with  the  native  prince, 
who  is  seldom  a  patron  of  the  :..ts  for  their  own 
Bakes. 

"  Surely,"  I  said,  "  you  could  not  depend  upon 
the  Indian  nobility  to  buy  landscapes.  They  never 
do.  I  know  of  only  one  distinguished  exception, 
and  he  lives  a  thousand  miles  from  here,  in  Bengal." 

"No,  not  landscape,"  returned  Mr.  Kauffer; 
"  but  that  Indian  nobleman  will  buy  his  portrait. 
We  send  our  own  man — photographic  artist — to 
his  State,  and  he  photograph  the  Chief  and  his  arab, 
the  Chief  and  his  Prime  Minister,  the  Chief  in  his 
159 


I    ,fil 


m 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

durbar,  pakce,  gardens,  stables— everything.  Pre- 
sently the  Chief  goes  on  a  big  shoot.  He  says  he 
will  not  have  u  plain  photograph— besides,  it  is  diffi- 
cult. He  will  have  a  painting,  and  he  will  pay." 
"  Ah,"  I  said, "  I  begin  to  see." 
"  You  sec  ?  Then  I  send  this  Armour.  Look !  " 
Mr.  Kttuifer  continued  with  rising  excitement, 
baited  apparently  by  the  unfortunate  canvas  to 
which  he  pointed,  "  When  Armour  go  to  make  that 
I  say  you  go  paint  zc  Maharajah  of  Gridigurh 
spearing  zc  wild  pig.    You  see  what  he  make  ?  " 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  it  is  a  wonderfully  spirited, 
dashing  tiling,  and  the  treatment  of  all  that  cane- 
brake  and  jungle  grass  is  superb." 

"  Ze  treatment— pardon  mc,  sir,  I  overboil— do 
you  know  which  is  ze  Maharajah?  " 
"  I  can't  say  I  do." 

"  Ncider  does  he.  Ze  Maharajah  refuse  zot  pic- 
ture ;  he  is  a  good  fellow,  too.  He  says  it  is  a  portrait 
of  zc  pig." 

"  But  it  is  so  good,"  I  protested, "  of  the  pig." 
"  But  that  does  not  interest  the  Maharajah,  you 
onderstand,  no.    You  sec  this  one  ?    Nawab  of  Kan- 
.    dore  on  his  State  elephant." 

"  No  doubt  about  it,"  I  said.  "  I  know  the 
Nawab  well,  the  young  scoundrel.  How  dignified 
he  looks!" 

There  was  a  note  of  real  sorrow  in  Kauffer's 
voice.     "Dignified?     Oh,  yes;  dignified,  but,  you 
160 


AN    IMPOSSIDLK    IDEAL 

observe,  also  black.    The  Nawiib  will  not  bo  painted 
black.    At  once  it  i.s  on  my  Imiiils." 

"  But  be  \s  black,"  I  riiiii)n.slriit<<l.  "  He's  the 
darkest  native  I've  ever  seen  aiiioiij;  tile  nobility." 

"  No  matter  for  that,  lie  will  not  be  bluck. 
Wlicn  I  pbotograpli  that  Nawab — any  nawab — I 
do  not  him  black  make.  But  zis  a.ss  of  Armour — 
ach ! " 

It  wa.s  a  fascinating  subject,  ond  I  coiild  have 
pursued  it  all  along  tbc  line  of  poor  Armour's  re- 
jected canvases,  but  the  n.  ed  to  get  away  from 
KuufFer  witb  his  equal  cliiini  upon  my  sympathy 
was  too  great.  To  have  cracked  my  solemn  mask  by 
a  single  smile  would  have  been  to  break  down  irrc- 
pressibly,  and  never  since  I  set  foot  in  India  had  I 
felt  a  parallel  desire  to  laugh  and  to  weep.  There 
was  a  pang  in  it  which  I  recognize  as  impossible  to 
convey,  arising  from  the  pont  of  contact,  almost  un- 
imaginable yet  so  clear  beiore  me,  of  the  uncompro- 
mising ideals  of  the  atelier  and  the  naive  demands  of 
the  Oriental,  with  an  unhappy  photographer  caught 
between  and  wriggling.  The  situation  was  really 
monstrous,  tbc  fatuous  rejection  of  dl  that  fine 
scheming  and  exquisite  manipulation,  and  it  did  not 
grow  less  so  as  Mr.  Kauffer  continued  to  unfold  it. 
Armour  had  not,  apparently,  proceeded  to  the  scene 
of  his  labors  without  instructions,  iv  the  pig-stick- 
ing delineation  he  had  been  specially  told  that  the 
Maharajah  and  the  pig  were  to  be  in  the  middle,  with 
161 


l/WLMER  HIGH  I 
LISRARiT 


AN    IMPOSSIBLF,    IDEAL 


the  rent  nowhere  nnd  nnthing  l)ctween.  Othe'  in- 
junctions were  as  cUiir,  unci  ii»  dourly  disrcgariled. 
Armour,  like  the  Mnlmnijiilis,  liiul  simply  "  refuse  " 
to  abandon  his  preineflitatod  conceptions  of  how  the 
thing  should  bo  done.  And  here  was  the  result,  for 
the  laughter  of  the  gods  and  anybody  else  that  might 
Bcc.  I  asked  Kautfer  unguardedly  if  no  sort  of 
pressure  could  be  broujrht  to  bear  upon  these  chaps 
to  make  them  pay  up.  Uis  face  beaming  with  liopc 
and  intelligence,  he  suggested  that  I  should  ap- 
proach the  Foreign  Office  in  his  behalf;  but  this  I 
could  not  quite  see  my  way  to.  The  coercion  of 
native  rulers,  I  explained,  was  a  difficult  and  a  dan- 
gerous art,  and  to  insist,  for  example,  that  one  of 
them  should  recognize  his  own  complexion  might  be 
to  run  up  a  disproportionate  little  bill  of  our  own.  I 
did,  however,  compound  something  with  KttufFer ;  1 
liope  it  wasn't  a  felony.  "  Look  here,"  I  said  to 
Kauffer,  "  this  isn't  official,  you  know,  in  any  way, 
but  how  would  it  do  to  write  that  scamp  Kandorc  a 
formal  letter  regretting  that  the  portrait  does  not 
suit  him,  and  asking  his  permission  to  dispose  of  it 
to  me?  Of  course  it  is  yours  to  do  as  you  like  with 
already,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't 
ask.  I  should  like  it,  but  the  Porcha  tiger  beat  will 
do  as  well." 

Kauffer  nearly  fell  upon  my  neck. 

"  That  Kandore  will  buy  it  to  put  in  one  bonfire 
162 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

first,"  lie  assured  nic,  and  I  sincerely  hoj.rd  1,:  his 
sake  th/il  it  would  be  the  case. 

"  Of  course  it's  undcrstoo<l,"  I  bcl'  ,.  .  In  „„.  to 
"«y,  "  tlmt  I  Ret  if,  if  I  do  get  it,  ,1  Mr  Ar.,„.ar  s 
pnce.  I'm  not  n  Mulinrnjali,  you  know,  -wd  H  hm 
a  portrait  of  mc." 

"  Of  course!  "  said  Kauffer,  "  but  I  •  ink  I  ^11 
Jfou  that  Porcha ;  it  is  zc  best  ot  zc  two." 


f 


163 


CHAPTER   VI 


w 


I  VENTUEED  for  a  few  days  to  keep  the  light 
which  chance  had  shed  for  me  upon  Armour's  affairs 
to  myself.     The  whole  thing  considered  in  connec- 
tion with  his  rare  and  delicate  talent,  seemed  too 
derogatory  and  disastrous  to  impart  without  the 
sense  of  doing  him  some  kind  of  injury  in  the  mere 
statement.     But  there  came  a  point  when  I  could 
no  longer  listen  to  Dora  Harris's  theories  to  accoyr  t 
for  him,  wild  idealizations  as  most  of  them  wer^  of 
any  man's  circumstances  and  intentions.     "  Why 
don't  you  ask  him  point-blank?  "  I  said,  and  she  re- 
plied, frowning  slightly,  "  Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that. 
It  would  destroy  something — I  don't  know  what, 
but  something  valuable — between  us."    This  struck 
me  as  an  exaggeration,  considering  how  far,  by  that 
time,  they  must  have  progressed  toward  intimacy, 
and  my  mouth  was  opened.    She  heard  mc  without 
the  exclamations  I  expected,  her  head  bent  over  the 
pencil  she  was  sharpening,  and  her  silence  continued 
after  I  had  finished.    The  touch  of  comedy  I  gave 
tlie  whole  thing— surely  I  was  justified  in  that ! — 
fell  flat,  and  I  extracted  from  her  muteness  a  sense 
of  rebuke ;  one  would  tliink  I  had  been  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  poor  devil. 
1G4 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

At  last,  having  broken  the  lead  of  her  pencil 
three  times,  slie  turned  a  cahn,  considering  eye  upon 
me. 

"You  have  known  this  for  a  fortnight?"  she 
asked.    "  That  doesn't  seem  someliow  quite  fair." 

"  To  whom?  »  I  asked,  and  her  answer  startled 
mo. 

"  To  eitlicr  of  us,"  she  said. 

How  she  advised  herself  to  that  effect  is  more 
than  I  can  imagine,  but  the  print  of  her  words  is  in- 
delible, that  is  what  slie  said. 

"  Oh,  confound  it !  »  I  exclaimed.  "  I  couldn't 
help  finding  out,  you  know." 

"  But  you  could  help  keeping  it  to  yourself  in 
that— in  that  base  way,"  she  replied,  and  almost— 
the  evening  light  was  beginning  to  glimmer  uncer- 
tamly  through  tlie  deodars— I  could  swear  I  saw  the 
flash  of  a  tear  on  her  eyelid. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  went  on  a  moment 
later,  "  but  I  do  liate  having  to  pity  him.  It's  in- 
tolerable— that." 

I  picked  up  a  dainty  edition  of  Aucassin  and 
Nicoletc  with  the  intention  of  getting  upon  ground 
less  emotional,  and  observed  on  the  flyleaf  "  D.H. 
from  LA.  In  memory  of  the  Hill  of  Stars."  I 
looked  appreciatively  at  the  binding,  and  as  soon  as 
possible  put  it  down. 

"  He  was  not  bound  to  tell  me,"  Dora  asserted 
presently,  in  reply  to  my  statement  that  the  mare 
165 


Ps 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

had  somehow  picked  up  a  nail  in  the  stable,  and  was 
laid  up. 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  him,"  I  said.  "  I 
think  he  was." 

"  His  reticence  was  due,"  she  continued,  as  if 
defying  contradiction,  "  to  a  simple  dislike  to  bore 
one  with  his  personal  affairs." 

"  Was  it.'  "  I  assented.  My  tone  acknowledged 
with  all  humility  that  she  was  likely  to  know,  and 
I  did  not  deserve  her  doubtful  glance. 

"  He  could  not  certainly,"  she  went  on,  with 
firmer  decision,  "  have  been  in  the  least  ashamed  of 
his  connection  with  KaufFer." 

"  He  comes  from  a  country  where  social  distinc- 
tions arc  less  sharp  than  they  are  in  this  idiotic 
place,"  I  observed. 

"  Oh,  if  you  think  it  is  from  any  lack  of  recogni- 
tion !  His  sensitiveness  is  beyond  reason.  He  has 
met  two  or  three  men  in  the  Military  Department 
here — he  was  aware  of  the  nicest  shade  of  their  pa- 
tronage. But  he  does  not  care.  To  him  life  is  more 
than  a  clerkship.  He  sees  all  round  people  like  that. 
They  are  only  figures  in  the  landscape." 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  he  is  not  at  all  concerned  that 
nobody  in  this  Capua  of  ours  knows  him,  or  cares 
anything  about  him,  or  has  bought  a  scrap  of  )u» 
work,  except  our  two  selves." 

"  That's  a  different  matter.  I  have  tried  to 
rouse  in  him  the  feeling  that  it  would  be  as  well  to  be 
166 


'■'JC.    "S: 


■:Jr 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

appreciated,  even  in  Simla,  and  I  think  I've  suc- 
ceeded. He  said,  after  those  two  men  had  gone  away 
on  Sunday,  that  he  thought  a  certain  reputation  in 
the  place  where  he  lived  would  help  anybody  in  his 
work." 

"On  Sunday.'  Do  you  mean  between  twelve 
and  two?  " 

"  Yes ;  he  came  and  made  a  formal  call.  There 
was  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't." 

"  Now  that  I  think  of  it,"  I  rejoined, "  he  shot  a 
card  on  me  too,  at  the  Club.  I  was  a  little  surprised. 
We  didn't  seem  someliow  to  be  on  thooc  terms.  One 
doesn't  readily  associate  him  with  any  convention- 
ality." 

"  There's  no  reason  why  he  shouldn'*,"  said  Dora 
again,  and  with  thix  vague  comment  »<■  spoke  of 
•omcthing  cl^-,  both  of  us,  I  think,  a  little  dijquieted 
«nd  dissiitisfird  tliftt  ho  had. 

"  I  think,"  JMra  said  a.1 1  w>t>t  away,  "  that  you 
had  bettor  go  up  to  tho  studio  nnd  t*ll  him  what  you 
have  told  nw-.  Perhaps  it  (V>osn't  matter  muHi,  but 
I  can't  boar  the  thought  of  his  not  knowing." 

"  CoriK-  to  Kiniffer's  in  the  morning  and  see  the 
pictures,"  I  urged;  but  she  tirnod  away,  "  Oh,  not 
witli  you." 

I  found  my  way  almost  at  once  to  Amy  Villa, 

not  only  because  I  had  been  told  to  go  there.     I 

wanted,  myself,  certain  satisfactions.     Armour  was 

alone  and  smoking,  but  1  had  come  prepared  against 

167 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

the  contingency  of  one  td  his  rigars.  They  were  the 
cigars  of  the  roan  who  <toc8»"l  know  what  he  eats. 
With  sociable  premiptness  I  hghted  one  of  my  own. 
The  httle  enclosed  veranda  testified  to  a  wave  of 
fresh  activity.  The  north  light  streamed  in  upon 
two  or  tliree  f rush  canvases,  the  place  sceimd  full  of 
enthusiasm,  and  you  could  see  its  source,  at  present 
quiescent  under  tJte  influence  of  tobacco,  in  Armour's 
face. 

"  You  have  taken  a  new  line,"  I  said,  pointing  to 
a  file  of  camels,  still  half  obscured  by  the  dust  of  the 
day,  coming  along  a  mountain  road  under  a  dim 
moon.  They  might  have  been  walking  through  time 
and  through  history.  It  was  a  queer,  simple  thing, 
with  a  world  of  early  Aryanism  in  it. 

"  Does  that  say  anything?  I'm  glad.  It  was  to 
me  articulate,  but  I  didn't  know.  Oh,  things  have 
been  going  well  with  me  lately.  Those  two  studies 
over  there  simply  did  themselves.  That  camp  scene 
on  the  1.  ft  is  almost  a  picture.  I  think  I'll  put  a 
little  more  work  on  it  and  give  it  a  chance  in  Paris. 
I  got  in  once,  you  know.  Champ  de  Mars.  With 
some  horses." 

"Did  you,  indeed?"  I  said.  "Capital."  I 
asked  him  if  he  didn't  atrociously  miss  the  life  of  the 
Quarter,  and  he  surprised  me  by  saying  that  he 
never  had  lived  it.  He  had  been  en  yention  instead 
with  a  dear  old  prolV.ssor  of  chemistry  and  his  fam- 
ily at  Puteaux,  and  used  to  go  in  and  out.  A  smile 
168 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

came  into  his  pyes  nt  the  renumbrancc,  and  he  told 
me  one  after  the  otlier  idyllic  httle  stories  of  the  old 
jrofossor  and  madunic.     AIndamc  ami  the  omelet— 
m.idanie  and  the  melon— M.  \  Jbois  and  the  niairc; 
I  SiU  charmed.     So  long  as  we  remained  in  Franco 
his  humor  was  like  this,  delicate  and  expansive,  hut 
an  accidental  allusion  led  us  across  the  Channel  « lu  n 
he  changed.     He  had  no  little  stones  of  the  Ih.i.   he 
spent  in  England.    Instead  he  let  hims.   I  ^o  in  gen- 
erah'zations,  aimed,  for  they  had  a  distina  aninuis, 
at  Enghsh  institutions  and  character,  particularly 
as  these  appear  in  Enghsh  society.     I  could  M<.t  be- 
lieve, from  the  little  I  had  seen  of  him,  that  his  expe- 
rience of  English  society  of  any  degree  had  been 
intimate;  what  he  said  had  the  flavor  of  Ra.lical 
Sunday  papers.     The  only  original    lement  was  the 
feeling  behind,  which  was  plainly  part  of  him ;  spec- 
ulation instantly  clamored  as  to  how  far  this  was 
purely  temperamental  and   how  far  the  result  of 
painful  contact.     He  himself,  he  said,  though  later 
of  the  Western  States,  had  been  bom  under  the  Brit- 
ish flag  of  British  parents— though  his  mother  «as 
an  Irishwoman  she  came  from  loyal  Ulster— and  he 
repeated  the  statement  as  if  it  in  son'e  way  justified 
his  attitude  toward  his  fellow  countrymen  and  ex- 
cused his  truculence  in  the  ear  of  a  servant  of  the 
empire  which  he  had  the  humor  to  abuse.     I  heard 
him,  I  confess,  with  impatience,  it  was  all  so  shabby 
and  shallow,  but  I  heard  him  out,  and  I  was  reward- 
169 


V 


!,.»■ 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

ed ;  he  came  for  an  illustration  in  the  end  to  Simla. 
"  Look,"  he  said,  "  at  what  they  call  their  '  Govern- 
ment House  list' ;  and  look  at  Strobe,  Signer  Stro- 
bo.  Isn't  Strobo  a  man  of  intelligence,  isn't  he  a 
man  of  benevolence?  He  gav  -cn  thousand  rupees 
last  week  to  the  famine  fund.  Is  Strobo  on  Gov- 
ernment House  list?  Is  he  ever  invited  to  dino  with 
the  Viceroy?  No,  because  Strobo  keeps  a  hotel! 
Look  at  Rosario — where  does  Rosario  conic  in? 
Nowhere,  because  Rosario  is  a  clerk,  and  a  subordi- 
nate. Yet  Rosario  is  a  man  of  wiilo  reading  and  a 
very  accomplished  fellow !  " 

It  became  more  or  less  necessary  to  argue  then, 
and  the  commonplaces  with  which  I  opposed  him 
called  forth  a  wealth  of  detail  bearing  most  pic- 
turesquely upon  his  stay  among  us.  I  began  to 
think  he  had  never  hated  English  rigidity  and  Eng- 
lish snobbery  until  he  came  to  Simla,  and  that  he  and 
Strobo  and  Rosario  had  mingled  their  experiences  in 
one  bitter  cup.  I  gathered  this  by  inference  only, 
he  was  curiously  watchful  and  reticent  as  to  any- 
thing that  had  happened  to  him  personally;  in- 
deed, he  was  careful  to  aver  preferences  for  the  so- 
ciety of  "  sincere  "  people  like  Strobo  and  Rosario, 
that  seemed  to  declare  him  more  than  indifferent  to 
circles  in  which  he  would  not  meet  them.  In  the  end 
our  argument  left  me  ridiculously  irritated — it  was 
simply  distressing  to  see  the  platform  from  which 
he  obtained  so  wide  and  exquisite  a  view  of  the  world 
170 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

upheld  by  sucl,  flim,y  pillars-and  my  nerves  were 
nc.  soot  ed  by  his  proposa,  to  wa,k  Jth  .e  to  ti: 
t-Iub.     I  could  hardly  refuse  it,  however,  and  he 
came  along  m  excellent  spirits,  having  effected  the 
Hc.oht.on  of  British  social  ideals,  roof  and  branch: 
Z     ""'"«'-^'/°g  accompanied,  keeping  offensively 
„  ar  our  heels.    It  was  not  even  an  honlt  pi,  but  a 
dog  of  tawdry  pretensions  with  a  banner-like  tail 
d    honestly  got  from  a  spaniel.     On  one  occasion  I 
very  nearly  kicked  the  dog. 


I 


13 


ni 


ii^ 


CHAPT.  H    VII 

«  The  fact  is"  I  said  to  Dora  as  we  rode  down 
to  the  gymkhana,  "  his  personality  takes  possess,on 
of  one  I  constantly  go  to  that  little  hut  of  h..  w  tl 
•ntentions.  benevolent  or  otherwise,  wh.ch  I  never 

"":i:You"n,ean,"shcanswered."thatyou  complete- 
ly forgot  to  ro;eal  to  him  your  hateful  knowledge 
'''°«o'Lt:Srary,  I  didn't  forget  it  for  a 
„,cnt     But  the  conversation  took  a  turn  that  made 

it  quite  -P-f  ^^^^'If  Harris  replied  softly. 

"  I  can  understand,    Aliss  narn       ) 
"how  that  might  be.     And  it  doesn't  m  the  least 
irshe  -nt  on  triumphantly,  "  because  I've 

"''M^nr;mu.havebeenatri«e.«.pat 
the  time,  for  this  struck  me  a.  a  matter  for  o.^-nse. 
«  You  thought  I  would  trample  upon  him, 

'^"'"::  No,  „o  .eally.  I  disliked  his  not  knowing  it 

wa.  known-nVn  de  pl^f  '^^'^  '^"''^  ''«''"^'- 
"What  did  iie  say?" 
"  Oh,  not  much.    What  should  he  ,iy  < 

172 


I 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

"  He  might  have  expressed  a  decent  regret  on 
poor  KaufFer',  account."  I  growle.l.  Dora  did  not 
itply,  and  a  glance  showed  her  frowning. 

"  I  believe  he  apologized !  "  I  cried,  pushing,  as 
It  were,  my  advantage. 

"  He  explained." 

"  Oil ! " 

"  Of  course  he  hasn't  relished  the  position,  and 
of  course  he  didn't  realize  it  before  he  came.  Shall 
we  trot .'  " 

I  was  compelled  to  negative  the  idea  of  trotting 
since  we  were  descending  quite  the  steepest  pitch  of 
the  road  down  to  Annandale.  We  went  on  at  a  walk 
and  It  occurred  to  me,  as  my  contemplative  gaze  fell 
on  my  own  pig-skins,  that  we  were,  even  for  Simla 
an  uncommonly  well-turned-out  pair.    I  had  helped 
to  pick  Dora's  hack,  and  I  allowed  myself  to  reflect 
that  he  did  my  judgment  credit.     She  sat  him  per- 
fectly in  her  wrath-she  was  plainly  angry-not  a 
hair  out  of  place.    Why  i.  it  that  a  lady  out  of  tem- 
per with  lier  escort  always  walks  away  from  him? 
Is  her  horse  .sympathetic'     Ronald,  at  all  events 
was  leading  by  a  couple  of  yards,  when  suddenly  he' 
shied,  bounding  well  across  the  road. 

The  mare,  whose  manners  I  can  always  answer 
lor,  simply  stopped  and  looked  haughtily  about  for 
explanations.  A  path  dropped  into  the  road  from 
the  hillside;  something  came  seranibling  and  stum- 
bling down. 

ITS 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Dora,  n»  it  emerged  and  was  Ar- 
mour on  his  much  enduring  white  pony,  "  how  you 
friglitcnedus!" 

"  Why  don't  you  stick  to  the  road,  man  t  1  ex- 
claimed. "  It  isn't  usual  to  put  ponies  up  and  down 
these  coolie  tracks!"  ,,.,»,    t 

He  took  no  notice  of  this  rather  broad  hmt  tliat 
I  was  annoyed,  but  fixed  his  eager,  light,  lummous 
eyes  upon  Dora. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  and  added,  "  I  d.d  not  ex- 
pect to  see  you  to-day !  " 

"  Not  till  to-morrow,"  she  returned.  ''^  \  ou  re- 
member that  we  are  sketching  to-morrow?  " 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled  slightly;  and  then 
I  remember  noticing  that  his  full,  arched  upper  hp 
seUlom  quite  met  its  counterpart  over  his  teeth.  1  his 
gave  an  unpremeditated  casual  effect  to  evcrythmg 
he  found  to  say,  and  made  him  look  a  dreamer  at 
his  busiest.  His  smile  was  at  the  folly  of  her  re- 
minder. 

"  I've  just  been  looking  for  somethmg  that  you 
would  like,"  he  said,  "  but  it  isn't  much  good  hunt- 
ing about  alone.  I  see  fi^c  times  as  much  when  we 
go  together." 

He  and  his  pony  barred  the  way  ;  he  had  on  air 
of  leisure  and  of  felicity;  one  would  think  we  had 
met  at  an  afternoon  party. 

"  We  are  on  our  way,"  I  explained,  "  to  the 
gymkhana.     ISIiss  Harris  is  in  one  of  the  events. 
174 


',*  "^f  «t«m 


AN     lAIPOSSIULE     IDEAL 

You  did  enter  for  the  necdle-thrcadinR  rare,  <lidn't 
you,  with  Lord  Ar(„ur?    I  think  we  must  Ret  on." 

A  slow,  dull  red  mounted  to  Armour's  f.ice  nnd 
seemed  to  put  out  that  curious  li^ht  in  his  eyes. 

"  Is  it  f(ir?  "  he  asked,  RlnneinR  down  over  the 
trec-topa.     "  I've  never  been  there." 

"  Why,"  cried  Dora,  suddenly,  "  you've  been 
down ! " 

"  So  you  have,"  I  confirmed  her.  "Your  beast  U 
damaged  too." 

"Oh,  it  was  only  a  stumbK,"  Armour  replied; 
"  I  stuck  on  all  right." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  you  had  better  get  off  now,  as 
you  didn't  then,  and  look  at  your  animal's  near 
fore.    The  swelling's  as  big  as  a  bun  already." 

Again  he  made  me  no  answer,  but  looked  intent- 
ly and  questioningly  at  Dora. 

"  Get  off,  Mr.  Armour,"  she  said,  sharply,  "  and 
lead  your  horse  home.     It  is  not  fit  to  be  ridden 
Good-by." 

I  have  no  doubt  he  did  it,  but  neither  of  us  were 
inclined  to  look  back  to  see.  Wc  pushed  on  under 
the  deodars,  and  I  was  indulgent  to  a  trot.  At  the 
end  of  it  Dora  remarked  that  .Mr.  Armour  naturally 
could  not  be  expected  to  know  anything  about  rid- 
ing, it  was  very  plucky  of  him  to  get  on  a  horse  at 
all,  among  these  precipices ;  and  I  of  course  agreed. 
Lord  Arthur  was  waiting  when  we  arrived,  on  his 
chestnut  polo  pony,  but  Dora  immediately  scratched 
175 


A' 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0    [ri^  Ilia 

^  ^^  m 
I.I    N  m 


1.8 


IS    11^    1^ 


S  APPLIED  IM/1GE    Inc 

!^'  165J   East   Moin   Street 

■,-:  Rochester,    Ne«    York  14609        USA 

=  (716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 

:=  (716)    288  -  5989  -  Fa. 


mm^i^m^T^^  .^m>  \ 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

for  the  brilliant  event  in  which  they  were  paired. 
Ronald,  she  said,  was  simply  cooked  with  the  heat. 
Ronald  had  come  every  yard  of  the  way  on  his  toes 
and  was  fit  for  anything,  but  Lord  Arthur  did  not 
insist.     There  were  young  ladies  in  Simla,  I  am  glad 
to  say,  who  appealed  more  vividly  to  his  imagina- 
tion than  Dora  Harris  did,  and  one  of  them  speedily 
replaced  her,  a  fresh-colored  young  Amazon  who 
was  staying  at  the  Chiefs.     She  wandered  about 
restlessly  over  the  dry  turf  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  went  and  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the  little 
wooden  Grand  Stand  and  sent  me  for  a  cup  of  tea. 
"  Won't  you  come  to  the  tent?  "  I  asked  a  little 
ruefully,  eying  the  distance  and  the  possible  col- 
lisions between,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I  simply  couldn't  bear  it,"  she  said,  and  I  went, 
feeling  somehow  chastened  myself  by  the  cloud  that 
v/as  upon  her  spirit. 

I  found  her  on  my  return  regarding  the  scene 
with  a  more  than  usually  critical  eye,  and  a  more 
than  usually  turned  down  lip.  Yet  it  was  exactly 
the  scene  it  always  was,  and  always,  probably,  will 
be.  I  sat  down  beside  her  and  regarded  it  also,  but 
more  charitably  than  usual.  Perhaps  it  was  rather 
trivial,  just  a  lot  of  pretty  dresses  and  excited  young 
men  in  white  riding-breeches  doing  foolish  things  on 
ponies  in  the  shortest  possible  time,  with  one  little 
crowd  about  the  Club's  refreshment  tent  and  an- 
other about  the  Staff's,  while  the  hills  sat  round  in 
176 


^  M 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 
an  indifferent  circle;  but  it  appealed  to  .e  with  a 
k,nd  of   n„.ly  feehng  that  afternoon,  and  inspired 
me  « ith  tolerance,  even  benevolence. 

"After  all,"  I  said,  "  it's  mainly  youth  and  high 
sp.nts-two  good  things.     And  one  knows  thf 

^^^'JAnd   who  are  they  to  know.^»   complained 

"  Just  decent  young  Englishmen  and  English- 
women out  here  on  their  country's  businoss,"^I  re- 
phed  cheerfully;  "with  the  marks  of  Oxford  and 
C  mbndge  and  Sandhurst  and  Woolwich  on  the 

do  and  how  to  do  it.    Oh,  I  like  the  breed '  » 

I  wonder,"  said  she,  in  a   tone  of  preposterous 
mekncho  V,  "  if  event.mlN,  T  ^  .  ,  'serous 

of  them.""  '"'"^""^^y  I  '"''ve  got  to  marry  one 

"Not  necessarily,"  I  said.      She  looked  at  me 
w.th  mterest,  as  if  I  had  contributed  importantly  to 

w.th  her  nd,ng-crop.  We  talked  of  indifferent 
thmgs  and  had  long  lapses.  At  the  close  of  one 
effort  Dora  threw  herself  back  with  a  deep,  tumultu- 
ous s.gh.  "  The  poverty  of  this  little  w'r;tch™d  re- 
sort ties  up  one's  tongue !  '  she  cried.  «  It  is  the 
bottom  of  the  cup;  here  one  gets  the  very  dre^  ' 
Simla  s  commonplace.    Let  us  climb  out  of  it  " 

I  thought  for  a  moment  that  Ronald  had  been 
too  much  for  her  nerves  coming  down,  and  offe«d 
177 


i^.l' 


15""  ■■LJ 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

to  change  saddles,  but  she  would  not.  Wc  took  it 
out  of  the  horses  all  along  the  first  upward  slopes, 
and  as  we  pulled  into  brea'he  them  she  turned 
to  me  paler  than  ever. 

"  I  feel  better  now,"  she  said. 
For  myself  I  had  got  rid  of  Armour  for  the 
afternoon.  I  think  my  irritation  with  him  about  h.s 
pony  rose  and  delivered  me  from  the  too  ms.stent 
thought  of  him.  With  Dora  it  was  otherw.se ;  she 
had  dismissed  him;  but  he  had  never  left  her  for  a 
moment  the  whole  long  afternoon. 

She  flung  a  searching  look  at  me.  With  a  reck- 
less turn  of  her  head,  she  said, "  Why  didn't  we  take 
him  with  us?" 

"  Did  we  want  him?  "  I  asked. 
"  I  think  I  always  want  him." 
«Ah'"  said  I,  and  would  have  pondered  this 
statement  at  some  length  in  silence,  but  that  she 
plainly  did  not  wish  me  to  do  so. 

"  We  might  perfectly  well  have  sent  his  pony 
home  with  one  of  our  own  servants— he  wou'  '-ve 
been  delighted  to  walk  down." 

"  He  wasn't  in  proper  kit,"  I  remonstrated. 
"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  speak  to  him  about  that. 
Make   him   get   some   tennis-flannels   and   riding- 
things."  ,, 
"  Do  you  propose  to  get  him  asked  to  places  f 

I  inquired.  •,      »  t 

She  gave  me  a  charmingly  unguarded  smile.      1 
178 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

propose  to  induce  you  to  do  so.  I  have  done  wliat  I 
could.  He  has  dined  with  us  several  times,  and  met 
a  few  people  who  would,  I  thought,  be  kind  to  him." 

"  Oh,  well,"  I  said,  "  I  have  had  him  at  the  Club 
too,  with  old  Lamb  and  Colonel  Hamilton.  He  made 
us  all  miserable  with  his  sliyness.  Don't  ask  me  to 
do  it  again,  please." 

"  I've  sent  him  to  call  on  certain  people,"  Dora 
continued,  "  and  I've  shown  his  pictures  to  every- 
body, and  praised  him  and  talked  about  him,  but  I 
can't  go  on  doing  that  indefinitely,  can  I.'  " 

"  No,"  I  said ;  "  people  might  misunderstand." 

"  I  don't  think  they  would  misunderstand,"  re- 
plied this  astonishing  girl,  without  flinching.  Slic 
even  sought  my  eyes  to  show  me  that  hers  were  clear 
and  full  of  purpose. 

"  Good  ..d!  "  I  said  to  myself,  but  the  words 
that  fell  from  me  were,  "  He  is  outside  all  that  life." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  living  a  life  that  he  is  out- 
side of.'  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  put  it  that  way,"  I  said,  and  set 
my  teeth,  "  I  will  do  what  I  can." 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  an  affectionate  ges- 
ture, and  I  was  reluctantly  compelled  to  press  it. 

The  horses  broke  into  a  trot,  and  we  talked  no 
more  of  Armour,  or  of  anything,  until  Ted  H  <rris 
joined  us  on  the  Mall. 

I  have  rendered  this  conversation  with  Dora  in 
detail  because  subsequent  events  depend  so  closelv 
179 


1^  ,..-■- 


m 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

upon  it.  Some  may  not  agree  that  it  was  basis 
enough  for  the  action  I  thouglit  well  to  take;  I  can 
only  say  that  it  was  all  I  was  ever  able  to  obtain. 
Dora  was  always  particularly  civil  and  grateful 
about  my  efforts,  but  she  gave  me  only  one  more 
glimpse,  and  that  was  enigmatic,  of  any  special  rea- 
son why  they  should  be  made.  Perhaps  this  was 
more  than  compensated  for  by  the  abounding  views 
I  had  of  the  situation  as  it  lay  with  IngersoU  Ar- 
mour, but  of  that,  other  persons,  approaching  the 
subject  without  prejudice,  will  doubtless  judge  bet- 
ter than  I. 


Ire 


180 


CHAPTER    Vlir 


It  was  bettor  not  to  inquire,  so  I  never  knew  to 
wlint  extent  Kauffcr  worked  upon  the  vanity  of  an- 
cient houses  tlie  sinful  dodge  I  suggested  to  him ; 
but  I  heard  before  long  that  the  line  of  Armour's 
rejected  efforts  had  been  considerably  diminished. 
Armour  told  me  himself  that  KaufFer's  attitude  had 
become  almost  conciliatory,  that  Kauffer  had  even 
hinted  at  the  acceptance  of,  and  adhesion  to,  certain 
principles  which  he  would  lay  down  as  tho  basis  of 
another  year's  contract.    In  talking  to  me  about  it, 
Armour  dwelt  on  these  absurd  stipulations  only  as 
the  reason  why  any  idea  of  renewal  was  impossible. 
It  was  his  proud  theory  with  roe  that  to  work  for  a 
photographer  was  just  as  dignified  as  to  produce 
under  any  other  conditions,  provided  you  did  not 
stoop  to  ideals  which  for  lack  of  a  better  word  might 
be  called  photographic.    How  iie  represented  it  to 
Dora,  or  permitted  Dora  to  represent  it  to  him,  I  am 
not  so  certain — I  imagine  there  may  have  been  ad- 
missions and  qualifications.    Be  that  as  it  may,  how- 
ever, the  fact  was  imperative  that  only  three  months 
of  the  hated  bond  remained,  and  that  some  working 
substitute  for  the  hated  bond  would  have  to  be  dis- 
covered at  their  expiration.     Simla,  in  short,  must 
181 


•(!'■ 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

be  made  to  buy  Armour's  pictures,  to  ippreciiito 
them,  if  the  days  of  miriiclc  were  not  entirely  past, 
but  to  buy  them  any  way.  On  one  or  two  occasions 
I  had  already  made  Simla  buy  things.  I  had  cleared 
out  young  Ludlow's  stables  for  him  in  a  week— lie 
had  a  string  of  ten— when  he  played  polo  in  a  straw 
hat  and  had  to  go  home  with  sunstroke ;  and  I  once 
auctioned  off  all  the  property  costumes  of  tlic  Ama- 
teur Dramatic  Society  at  astonishing  prices.  Pic- 
tures presented  difficulties  which  I  have  hinted  at  in 
an  ear'Jer  chapter,  but  I  did  not  despair.  I  began 
by  hauling  old  Lamb,  puffing  and  blowing  like  a 
grampus,  up  to  Amy  Villa,  filling  him  up  all  the 
way  with  denunciations  of  Simla's  philistinism  and 
suggestions  that  be  alone  redeemed  it. 

It  is  a  thing  I  am  ashamed  to  think  of,  and  it 
deserved  its  reward. 

Lamb  criticized  and  patronized  every  blessed 
thing  he  saw,  advised  A-  lOur  to  beware  of  manner- 
ism and  to  be  a  little  less  liberal  with  his  color,  and 
heard  absolutely  unmoved  of  the  horses  Armour  had 
got  into  the  Salon.  "  I  understand,"  he  said,  with  a 
benevolent  wink, "  that  about  four  thousand  pictures 
arc  hung  every  year  at  the  Salon,  and  I  don't  know 
how  many  thousand  are  rejected.  Let  Mr.  Armour 
get  a  picture  accer  ted  by  the  Academy.  Then  he 
will  have  something/  to  talk  about." 

Neither  did  Sir  William  Lamb  buy  anything  at 


aU. 


182 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

Tlic  experiment  with  Lady  Pilkey  wus  even  more 
distressing.  She  gushed  with  fuir  appropriateness 
and  great  hherality,  and  finally  fixed  upon  one  seenc 
to  make  her  own.  She  winningly  asked  the  price  of 
it.  She  had  never  known  anjhody  who  did  not  un- 
derstand prices.  Poor  Armour,  the  color  of  a  live 
coal,  named  one  hundred  rupees. 

"  One  hundred  rupees !  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  I  can 
never  afford  that !  You  must,  you  must  really  give 
it  to  me  for  seventy-five.  It  will  break  my  heart  if 
I  can't  have  it  for  seVenty-fivc." 

"  Give  me  the  pleasure,"  said  Armour,  "  of  mak- 
ing you  a  present  of  it.  You  have  been  so  kind 
about  everything,  and  it's  so  seldom  one  meets  any- 
body who  really  cares.  So  let  me  send  it  to  you>' 
It  was  honest  embarrassment;  he  did  not  mean  to  be 
impertinent. 
And  she  did. 

Blum,  of  the  Geological  Department— Hen 
Blum  in  his  own  country— came  up  and  honestly  re- 
joiced, and  at  the  end  of  an  interminable  pipe  did 
purchase  a  little  Breton  bit  that  I  hated  to  see  go- 
it  was  one  of  the  things  that  gave  the  place  its  air; 
but  Blum  had  a  large  family  undergoing  educa- 
tion at  Heidellrerg,  and  exclaimed,  to  Armour's 
keenest  anguish,  that  on  this  account  he  could  not 
more  do. 

Altogether,  during  the  months  of  August  and 
September,  persons  resident  in  Simla  drawing  their 
183 


f 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

income  from  IKr  Jliijcsty,  bought  from  the  eccen- 
tric younf?  urtist  from  nowhere,  HviiiK  on  Summer 
Hill,  cunviises  imd  little  woollen  \mnv\s  to  tlie  extent 
of  two  hundred  nnd  fifty  rupees.  Lady  I'ilkey  had 
asked  him  to  lunch— slic  might  well !  and  he  had  ap- 
])eared  at  three  garden-parties  and  a  picnic.  It  was 
not  enough. 

It  was  not  enough,  and  yet  it  was,  in  a  manner, 
too  much.  Pitiful  as  it  was  in  substance,  it  had  an 
extraordinary  personal  effect.  Armour  sucUlenly 
began  to  turn  himself  out  welt— his  apparel  was  of 
smarter  cut  than  mine,  and  his  neckties  in  better 
taste.  Little  elegances  appeared  in  the  studio — he 
offered  you  Scotch  in  a  Venetian  decanter  and  Mcla- 
chrinos  from  a  chased  silver  box.  The  farouche  cle- 
ment faded  out  of  his  speech ;  his  ideas  remained  as 
fresh  and  as  simple  as  ever,  but  he  gave  them  a  form, 
bless  me !  that  might  have  been  used  at  the  Club.  Ho 
worked  as  hard  as  ever,  but  more  variously  ;  he  tried 
his  hand  at  several  new  things.  He  said  lie  was  feel- 
ing about  for  something  that  would  really  make  his 
reputation. 

In  spite  of  all  this  his  little  measure  of  success 
made  him  more  contemptuous  than  before  of  its 
scene  and  its  elements.  He  declared  that  he  had  a 
poorer  idea  than  ever  of  society  now  that  he  saw  the 
pattern  from  the  smart  side.  That  his  convictions 
on  this  head  survived  one  of  the  best  Simla  tailors 
shows  that  they  must  always  have  been  strong.  I 
184 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDKAL 

tln,,K  he  believed  that  he  «a.s  <l„in„  nil  that  he  did 
do  to  make  himself  socially  possible  «i'h  the       r- 
pose  of  pleasing  Dora   Harris.      I   „,,„I,I   „o.   no,v 
venture  to  say  ho^-  f„r  Dora  inspir..!  a,ul  em.tn.lled 
"-..  .,.  th,s  .hreetion,  and  bow  far  the  i,„p,;|se  «„, 
"«  ««  n      The  measure  „f  «ppreeiat:o„  that  U.^an 
lo  seek  h,s  p.etures,  poor  and  snmll  though  it  was 
K'ive  b.m,  on  the  other  han.l.  the  n.ost  unalloy,,!  ,le- 
l.«ht     He  talked  of  the  advice  of  Sir  William  Lan.b 
as  .f  ,t  «e.  -  anythinK  but  that  of  a  pon.pou,  old  ass, 
and  he  n.ade  a  feast  with  cha„,p„gne  for  Blu.u  that 
mus    have  cost  bin,  quite  as  nmch  as  Elun,  paid  for 
the  B-eton  sketch     He  confinned  n,y  «uess  ti.at  he 
h„,l  never  ,n   .;.,  :.;e  until  he  came  to  Simla  sold 
"nyth.nK.  so  that  even  these  small  transactions  were 
great  thrngs  to  him,  and  the  earnest  of  a  future 
upon  „.h.h  he  covered  bis  eyes  not  to  Raze  too 
raptl^v.    He  n<ent,oned  to  me  that  Kauffer  bad  been 
asked  t      bis  addre.ss-w>.o  could  it  possibly  be?_ 
and  looked  so  damped  by  my  humorous  su^sestion 
that  .t  was  a  friend  of  Kauffer's  in  some  otifer  li„" 
who  wanted  a  bill  paid,  that  I  felt  I  bad  been  Ruilty 
of  brutality.     And  all  the  while  the  quality  of  hil 
vonderful  output  never  changed  or  abated.     Pure 
aad  firm  and  prismatic  it  remained.     I  found  him 
one  day  at  the  very  end  of  October,  with  shining 
eyes  and  fingers  blue  witl,  cold,  putting  the  last  of 
the  afternoon  hght  on  the  snows  into  one  of  the  most 
d.-amatic  bdl  pictures  I  ever  knew  him  to  do.    He 
185 


I 


it" 


AN     IMPOSSIBLK     IDKAL 

Kccmcl  intoxicntc.1  with  \m  skill,  and  huinnied  the 
••  MursiilliiiHo,"  I  rciHiiihor,  nil  the  wuy  to  Amy 
Villii  whither  I  iiccoiiiimiiii'il  him. 

It  was  the  hiHt  .liiy  of  Kiuiffcr's  contract;  ami 
hcsi.lcs,  all  the  world,  secretaries,  establishments,  hill 
captains,   grass   wi.lows,  shops,   and   sundries,   was 

trundlinK  down  the  hill.     I  came  to  ask  my  young 

friend  what  he  meant  to  do. 

"  Ho?  "  he  cried.     "  Why,  eat,  drink,  and  be 

merry !  Kauffcr  has  paid  up,  and  his  yoke  is  at  the 

bottom   of   the   sea.     Come   back   and   dine    with 

me!" 

The  hour  we  spent  together  in  his  little  inner 
room  before  dinner  was  served  stands  out  among  my 
strangest,  loveliest  memories  of  Armour.     JIc  was 
divinely  caught  up,  and  absurd  as  it  is  to  write,  he 
seemed  to  carry  mo  with  him.     We  drank  each  a 
glass   of   vermuth   before    dinner   sitting   over  a 
scented  fire  of  deodar  branches,  while  outside  the  lit- 
tle window  in  front  of  me  the  lift-d  lines  of  the  great 
empty  Himalayan  landscape  faded  and  fell  into  a 
blur.     I  remembered  the  solitary  scarlet  dahlia  that 
stood  between  us  and  the  vast  cold  hills  and  held  its 
color  when  all  was  gray  but  that.     The  hill  world 
waited  for  the  wiiter;  down  a  far  valley  we  could 
bear  a  barking  dei  r.    Armour  talked  slowly,  often 
hesitating  for  a  word,  of  the  joy  there  was  in  beauty 
and  the  divinity  in  the  man  who  saw  it  with  his  own 
eyes.    I  have  read  notable  pages  that  brought  con- 
186 


AN     I  AI  P  O  S  S  I  B  L  E     ID  V.  A  L 

viction  p,.l,.  bwidc  thnt  which  stole  alwut  lh<-  room 
from  nh«t  he  .said.  The  comment  ma>  «cm  fnntas- 
tic,  but  it  i-  I  rommcnt— I  caressed  Uie  dog.  'he 
ser^■ant  dalt.rcd  in  with  the  plates,  and  at  sh  ut 
outside  Armour  left  me.  He  came  in  rndiani  with 
S-«nor  Stroho,  also  radiant  and  carrying  a  violin. 
t  .  hotel-keeping  wa.s  not  the  Signer's  only  accom- 
plishment. I  knew  Strobo  well ;  many  a  special  dish 
l.a.l  he  or<lered  for  my  little  parties;  and  we  met  at 
Armour's  fireside  like  the  genial  ol,l  acquaintances 
we  were.  Ar  her  voice  without  and  jiresently  I 
was  nodding '  .losario  and  vaguely  wondering  why 
he  looked  uncomfortable. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Arn'^ur,  as  wc  sat  down, 
"  I've  got  nothing  but  beev  If  I  had  known  you 
were  all  coming,  no  vintage  ..at  crawls  up  the  hill 
would  have  been  good  enough  for  me."  He  threw 
the  bond  of  his  wonderful  smile  round  us  as  we  swal- 
lowed his  stuff,  and  our  hearts  were  lightened. 
"  You  follows,"  he  went  on  no<lding  at  the  othrr  two, 
"  might  happen  any  day,  but  my  friend  John  Phil- 
ips comes  to  me  across  aerial  spaces ;  he  is  a  star  I've 
tr.ipped— you  don't  do  that  often.  Pil.sener,  John 
Philips,  or  Black.'  "  He  was  helping  his  only  serv- 
ant by  pouring  out  the  beer  himself,  and  as  I  de- 
clared for  Black  he  slapped  me  affectionately  on 
the  back  and  said  my  choice  was  good. 

The  last  person  who  had  slapped  me  on  the  back 
was  Lord  Dufferin,  and  I  smiled  softly  and  pri- 
J3  1S7 


131+' 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 
vately  at  the  remembrance,  and  what  a  difference 
there  was.    I  had  resented  Duffcrin's  slap. 

Wc  had  spiced  hump  and  jungle-fowl  and  a  Nor- 
mandy cheese,  everybody  will  understand  that;  but 
how  shall  I  make  plain  with  what  exultation  and 
simplicity  we  ate  and  drank,  how  the  four  candid 
selves  of  us  sat  around  the  table  in  a  cloud  of  tobacco 
aid  cheered  each  other  on,  Armour  always  far  in 
front  turning  handsprings  as  he  went.    Scraps  come 
back  to  me,  but  the  whole  queer  night  has  receded 
and  taken  its  place  among  those  drea;  s  that  insist 
at  times  upon  having  been  realities.    Rosario  told  us 
stories  Kipling  might  have  coveted  of  the  under  life 
of  Port  Said.    Strobo  talked  with  glorious  gusto  of 
his  uncle  the  brigand.    They  were  liberated  men ;  we 
were  all  liberated  men-     "  Let  the  direction  go, 
cried  Armour,  "  and  give  the  senses  flight,  taking 
^   the  image  as  it  comes,  beating  the  air  with  happy 
pinions."     He  must  have  been  talking  of  his  work, 
but  I  can  not  now  remember.  And  what  made  Stro- 
bo say,  of  life  and  art,  "  I  have  waited  for  ten  years 
and  five  thousand  pounds— now  my  old  violin  says, 
'  Go,  handle  the  ladle !   Go,  add  up  the  account ! ' ' 
And  did  wc  really  discuss  the  chances  of  ultimate 
salvation  for  souls  in  the  Secretariat?     I  know  I 
lifted  my  glass  once  and  cried,  "  I,  a  slave,  drink  to 
freedom!"   and   Rosario   clinked  with   me.     And 
Strobo  played  wailing  Hungarian  airs  with  sud- 
den little  shakes  of  hopeless  laughter  in  them.     I 
188 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

can  not  even  now  hear  Naches  without  being  filled 
with  the  recollection  of  how  certain  bare  branches 
in  me  that  night  blossomed. 

I  walked  alone  down  the  hill  and  along  the  three 
miles  to  the  Club,  and  at  every  step  the  tide  sank  in 
me  till  it  cast  me  on  my  threshold  at  three  in  the 
morning,  just  the  middle-aged  shell  of  a  Secretary 
to  the  Government  of  India  that  I  was  when  I  set 
forth.  Next  day  when  my  head  clerk  brought  mc 
the  files  we  avoided  one  another's  glances ;  and  it  was 
quite  three  weeks  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  ad- 
dress him  with  the  dignity  and  distance  prescribed 
for  his  station  as  "  lAIr."  Rosario. 


189 


!f 


j«' 


m 


CHAPTER   IX 

I  WENT  of  course  to  Calcutta  for  the  four  win- 
ter months.     Harris  and  I  were  together  at  the 
Club      It  was  the  year,  I  remember,  of  the  great 
shindy  as  to  whether  foreign  consuls  should  contmuc 
to  be  made  honorary  members,  in  view  of  the  senti- 
ments some  of  them  were  freely  reflecting  from  Eu- 
rope upon  the  subject  of  a  war  in  South  Africa 
which  was  none  of  theirs.    Certainly,  feeling  as  they 
did  it  would  have  been  better  if  they  had  swaggered 
less  about  a  club  that  stood  for  British  Government ; 
but  I  did  not  vote  io  withdraw  the  invitation.    We 
can  not,  after  all,  take  notice  of  every  idle  word  that 
drops  from  Latin  or  Teutonic  tongues;  it  isn't  our 
way;  but  it  was  a  liverish  cold  weather  on  various 
accounts,  and  the  public  temper  was  short.    I  heard 
from  Dora  oftener,  Harris  declared,  than  he  did. 
She  was  spending  the  winter  with  friends  in  Agra, 
and  Armour,  of  course,  was  there  too,  living  at 
Laurie's  Hotel,  and  painting,  Dora  assured  me,  with 
immense  energy.    It  was  just  the  place  for  Armour, 
a  sumptuous  dynasty  wrecked  in  white  marble  and 
buried  in  desert  sands  for  three  hundred  years ;  and 
I  was  glad  to  hear  that  he  was  making  the  most  of 
190 


AN  IMPOSSIBLE  IDEAL 
it.  It  was  quite  by  the  way,  but  I  had  lent  him  the 
money  to  go  there— somebody  had  to  lend  it  to  him 
and  wlien  he  asked  nic  to  decide  wlicther  lie  should 
take  his  passage  for  Marseilles  or  use  it  for  this  oth- 
er purpose  I  could  hardly  hesitate,  believing  in  him, 
as  I  did,  to  urge  him  to  paint  a  little  niore",f  India' 
before  he  went.  I  frankly  despaired  of  his  ever 
being  able  to  pay  his  way  in  Simla  without  KaufFer, 
but  that  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  make  a 
few  more  notes  for  further  use  at  home,  where  I 
sometimes  saw  for  him,  when  his  desultory  and  ex- 
perimental days  were  over  and  some  definitencss  and 
order  had  come  into  his  work,  a  Bond  Street  exhi- 
bition. 

I  have  not  said  all  this  time  that  I  thought  of 
Ingersoll  Armour  and  Dora  Harris  together,  be- 
cause their  connection  seemed  too  vague  and  fantas- 
tic and  impossible  to  hold  for  an  instant  before  a 
steady  gaze.  I  have  no  wish  to  justify  myself  when 
I  write  that  I  preferred  to  keep  my  eyes  averted, 
enjoying  perhaps  just  such  measure  of  vision  as 
would  enter  at  a  corner  of  them.  This  may  or  may 
not  have  been  immoral  under  the  circumstances — the 
event  did  not  prove  it  so— but  for  urgent  private 
reasons  I  could  not  be  the  person  to  destroy  the  idyl, 
if  indeed  its  destruction  were  possible,  that  flour- 
ished there  in  the  corner  of  my  eye.  Besides,  had 
not  I  myself  planted  and  watered  it?  But  it  was 
foolish  to  e-xpect  other  people,  people  who  are  for- 
191 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

ever  on  the  lookout  for  trousseaux  and  wedding- 
bells,  and  who  considered  these  two  as  mere  man 
and  maid,  and  had  no  sight  of  them  as  engagmg 
young  spirits  in  happy  conjunction-.t  was  foohsh 
to  expect  such  people  to  show  equal  consideration. 
Cliristmas  was  barely  over  before  the  lady  wit.,  whom 
Miss  Harris  was  staying  found  it  her  duty  to  com- 
municate  to   Edward   Harris   the   f.ct  that  dear 
Dora's  charming  friendship-she  was  sure  it  was 
nothing  more-with  the  young  artist-Mrs    Poul- 
ton  believed  Mr.  Harris  would  understand  who  was 
meant-was  exciting  a  good  deal  of  comment  in  the 
station,  and  u'ould  dear  Mr.  Harris  please  write  to 
Dora  himself,  as  Mrs.  Poulton  was  beginning  to 
feel  so  responsible? 

I  saw  the  letter ;  Harris  showed  it  to  me  when  he 
sat  down  to  breakfast  with  the  long  face  of  a  man 
in  a  domestic  difficulty,  and  we  settled  togeH.er 
whom  we  should  ask  to  put  his  daughter  up  in  Cal- 
cutta.    It  should  be  the  wife  of  a  .  ,an  in  his  own 
department  of  course;  it  is  to  one's  Deputy  Secre- 
tary that  one  looks  for  succor  at  times  like  this ;  and 
naturally  one  never  looks  in  vain.     Mrs.   oymons 
would  be  dehgh^^d.    I  conjured  up  Dora's  rage  on 
receipt  of  the  telegram.    She  loathed  the  Symonses. 
She  came,  but  not  at  the  jerk  of  a  wire;  she 
arrived  a  week  later,  with  a  face  of  great  propriety 
and  a  smile  of  gre..t  unconcern.     Harris    having 
got  hex  effectually  out  of  harm's  way,  shirked  f ur- 
''  193 


^^^^ 


A\     IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

ther  insistence,  and  I  Jiave  reason  to  believe  that  Ar- 
mour was  never  even  mentioned  between  them. 

Dora  applied  herself  to  the  gaieties  of  the  season 
with  the  zest  of  a  debutante;  she  seemed  really  re- 
freshed, revitalized.  She  had  never  looked  better, 
happier.  I  met  her  again  for  the  first  time  at  one  of 
the  Thursday  dances  at  Go\crnment  House.  In  the 
glance  she  gave  me  I  was  glad  to  detect  no  sus- 
picion of  collusion.  She  plainly  could  not  dream 
that  Edward  Harris  in  his  nefarious  exercise  of  pa- 
rental authority  had  acted  upon  any  hint  from  me. 
Tt  was  rather  sweet. 

Out  in  the  veranda,  away  from  the  blare  of  the 
Viceroy's  band,  she  told  me  very  delicately  and  with 
the  most  charming  ellipses  how  Armour  had  been 
filing  her  life  in  Agra,  how  it  had  all  been,  for  these 
two,  a  dream  and  a  vision.     There  is  a  place  below 
the  bridge  there,  where  the  cattle  come  down  from 
the  waste  pastures  across  the  yellow  sands  to  drink 
and  stand  in  the  low  water  of  the  Jumna,  to  stand 
and  switch  their  tails  while  their  herdsmen  on  f- 
bank  coux  them  back  with  "  Ari !  "  "  Ari !  "  "  Ari 
long  and  high,  faint  and  musical;  and  the  minarets 
of  Akbar's  fort  rise  beyond  against  the  throbbing 
sky  and  the  sur  fills  it  all.    This  place  I  shall  never 
sec  more  distinctly  than  I  saw  it  that  night  on  the 
veranda  at  Government  House,  Calcutta,  with  the 
conviction,  like  a  margin  for  the  picture,  that  its 
foreground  had  been  very  often  occupied  by  the 
193 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

woman  I  profoundly  worshiped  and  IngcrsoU  Ar- 
mour. She  told  mc  that  he  had  sent  mc  a  sketch 
of  it,  and  I  very  much  wished  he  hadn't.  One  >elt 
that  the  gift  would  carry  a  trifle  of  irony. 

"  He  has  told  me,"  she  said  once  brusquely, 
"  how  good  you  have  been  to  him." 

"  Is  he  coming  to  Simla  again  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh  yes !  And  please  take  it  from  me  that  this 
time  he  will  conquer  the  place.    He  has  undertaken 

to  do  it." 

"  At  your  request?  " 

"At  my  persuasion— at  my  long  entreaty. 
They  must  recognize  him— they  must  be  taught.  I 
have  set  my  heart  on  it." 

"  Does  he  himself  ^  '  much  care?  '  I  asked 
remembering  the  night  of  the  thirty-first  of  Oc- 
tober. 

«  Yes,  he  docs  care.    He  despises  it,  of  course, 
but  in  a  way  he  cares.    I've  been  trying  to  make  him 
care  more.    A  human  being  isn't  an  orchid ;  he  must 
'     draw  something  from  the  soil  he  grows  in." 

«  If  he  were  stable,"  I  mused;  "  if  he  had  a 
fixed  ambition  somewhere  in  the  firmament.  But  his 
purpose  is  a  will-o'-the-wisp." 

"  I  think  he  has  an  ambition,"  said  Miss  Harris, 

into  the  dark.  ^^ 

"  \h !  Then  we  must  continue,"  I  said —  con- 
tinue to  push  from  behind." 

Dora  did  not  reply.    She  is  a  person  of  energy 
194 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

and  determination,  and  might  Imvc  been  expected 
to  offer  to  cooperate  gladly.    But  she  didn't. 

"  He  is  painting  a  large  picture  for  next  season's 
exhibition,"  she  informed  mc.  "  I  was  not  allowed 
to  sec  it  or  to  know  anything  about  it,  but  he  de- 
clares it  will  bring  Simla  down." 
"  I  hope  not,"  I  said,  piously. 
"  Oh,  I  hope  so.  I  have  told  him,"  Dora  con- 
tmued,  slowly,  "  that  a  great  deal  depends  on  it." 

"  Here  is  Mrs.  Symons,"  I  was  able  to  return, 
"  and  I  am  afraid  she  is  looking  for  you." 

March  came,  and  the  city  lay  white  under  its  own 
dust.  The  electric  fans  began  to  purr  ,n  the  Club, 
and  Lent  brought  the  flagging  season  to  a  full  stop. 
I  had  to  go  that  year  on  tour  through  the  famine 
district  with  the  Jlembcr,  and  we  escaped,  gasping, 
from  the  Plains  about  the  middle  of  April.  Simla 
was  crimson  with  rhododendron  blossoms,  and  s-  ,icd 
a  spur  of  Arcady.  There  had  been  the  usual  .  ui.,- 
bcr  of  flittings  from  one  house  to  another,  and 
among  them  I  heard  with  satisfaction  that  Armour 
no  longer  occupied  Amy  N'illa.  I  would  not  for  the 
world  have  blurred  my  recollections  of  that  last 
evening— I  could  not  have  gone  there  again. 

"  He  is  staying  with  Sir  William  Lamb,"  said 
Dora,  handing  me  my  cup  of  tea.  "  And  I  am  qu't, 
jealous.  Sir  William,  only  Sir  William,  has  bee: .  al- 
lowed to  sec  the  exhibition  picture." 

"What  does  that  portend.""  1  said,  thought- 
fully. 

195 


m 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 
«  I  don't  know.    Sir  William  was  here  yesterday 
.imply  swelling  with  his  impression  of  it.    He  says 
it's  the  finest  thing  that  has  heen  done  m  Indm.    I 
told  you  he  would  conquer  them."  ^      ,,    ,    „x 

"  You  did,"  and  without  thinking  I  ;  'U»U      1 
hope  you  won't  he  sorry  that  you  asked  hnn  to. 
must  have  been  an  inspiration.  ,.,•.■„ 

Armour,    those    weeks    before   the    exh>b>t.  n 
scen.ed  invisible.    Dora  reported  lum  torn  w.th  the 
ineapacity  of  the  bazaar  frame-maker  to  loUow  a 
design,    and    other.use    excessively    occup.ed,    and 
there  wa.  no  lack  of  demands  upon  my  own  tmu. 
Besides,  n,y  ardor  to  be  of  assistance  to  the  young 
man  ^und'a  slight  damper  in  the  fact  that  he  was 
lying  with  Sir  William  Lamb.    Wha   competence 
had'  I  t^o  be  of  use  to  the  guest  of  Sir  Wilham  Lamb 
»  I  do  not  for  a  moment  think  he  will  be  there, 
said  Dora,  on  the  day  of  the  private  view  as  we  went 
.long  the  Mall  toward  the  Town  Hal    together. 
"  He  will  not  run  with  an  open  mouth  to  his  success. 
He  will  take  it  from  us  later." 

But  he  was  there.  We  entered  precisely  at  the 
dramatic  moment  of  his  presentation  by  S.r  W.lham 
Lamb  to  the  Viceroy.  He  stood  embarrassed  and 
smiling  in  a  little  circle  of  compliments  and  congrat- 
uTation.  Behind  him  and  a  little  to  the  left  hung  h.s 
picture,  large  and  predominant,  and  in  the  corner  of 
The  frame  was  stuck  the  red  ticket  that  signified  the 
Viceroy's  gold  medal.  We  saw  that,  I  think,  before 
196 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

wc  saw  anytliing  else.  Then  with  an  little  haste  as 
was  decent,  considering  His  Excellence's  proximity, 
we  walked  within  range  of  th-'  picture. 

I  am  not  particularly  pleased,  even  now,  to  have 
the  tusk  of  describing  the  thing.  Its  subject  was 
an  old  jMuhoniedan  priest  with  a  green  turban  and 
a  white  beard  exhorting  a  rubble  of  followers.  I 
heard  myself  saying  to  Dora  that  it  was  very  well 
painted  indeed,  very  conscientiously  painted,  and 
that  is  certainly  what  struck  me.  The  expression  of 
the  fire-eater's  face  was  extremely  characteristic ;  his 
arm  was  flung  out  with  a  gesture  that  perfectly 
matched.  The  group  of  listeners  was  carefully  com- 
posed and  most  "  naturally  ";  that  is  the  only  word 
that  would  come  to  me. 

I  glanced  almost  timidly  at  Dora.  She  was  re- 
garding it  with  a  deep  vertical  line  between  her 
handsome  brows. 

"  What — on  earth— has  he  done  with  himself?  " 
she  demanded,  but  before  I  could  reply  Armour  was 
by  our  side. 

"  Well.'  "  he  said,  looking  at  Dora. 

"  It — it's  very  nice,"  she  stannnered,  "  but  I 
miss  you." 

"  She  only  means,  you  know,"  I  rushed  in, 
"that  you've  put  in  everything  that  was  never 
there  before.  Accuracy  of  detail,  you  know,  and  so 
forth.  'Pon  my  word,  there's  some  drawing  in 
that!" 

197 


I 


^?"' V 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

"  No,"  said  Dora,  calmly,  "  what  I  complain  of 
ia  that  lie  hua  left  out  cvcrythiii«  that  was  there  be- 
fore. Hut  he  has  won  the  gold  medal,  and  I  con- 
gratulate hini." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  uneasily,  "  don't  congratulate 
me.    I  didn't  do  it.     Positively  I  am  not  to  blame." 

"  His  Excellency  says  that  it  reminds  him  of  an 
incident  in  one  of  Mrs.  Steel's  novels,"  said  Armour, 
just  turning  his  head  to  ascertain  His  Excellency's 
whereabouts. 

"  Dear  me,  so  it  does,"  I  exxclaimed,  eagerly, 
"  one  couldn't  name  the  chapter— it's  the  general 
feeling."  I  went  on  to  discourse  of  the  general 
feeling.  Words  came  generously,  questions  with 
point,  comments  with  intelligence.  I  swamped  the 
situation  and  so  carried  it  off. 

"  The  Viceroy  has  bought  the  thing,"  Armour 
went  on,  looking  at  Dora,  "  and  has  commissioned 
me  to  paint  another.    The  only  restriction  he  makes 

is " 

"That  it  shall  be  of  the  same  size?"  asked 

Dora. 

"  That  it  must  deal  with  some  phase  of  native 

life." 

Miss  Harris  walked  to  a  point  behind  us,  and 
stood  there  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  picture. 
I  glanced  at  her  once ;  her  gaze  was  steady,  but  per- 
fectly blank.  Then  she  joined  us  again,  and  struck 
into  the  stream  of  my  volubility. 
198 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE     1 1)  i:  A  L 

"  I  am  delighted,"  she  »ni<l,  pleasantly,  to  Ar- 
mour. "  You  have  done  exactly  what  I  wankd  you 
to  do.  You  have  won  the  Viceroy's  mi.la.,  and  nil 
the  reputation  there  is  to  win  in  this  place.  Come 
and  dine  to-night,  nnd  we  will  rejoice  together.  But 
wasn't  it— for  you— a  little  difficult?  " 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  she  had  offered  him  a 
cup,  and  then  dashed  it  from  his  lips;  but  the  occa- 
sion «ns  not  one,  of  course,  for  crying  out. 

"  ()h  no,"  ho  said,  putting  on  -n  c.\( client  face. 
"  But  it  took  a  hideous  time." 


199 


»i«L^mp?. 


CHAPTER   X 


5f>--  ' 


Within  a  fortnight  1  was  surprised  nnd  a  lit- 
tle irritated  to  receive  from  Armour  the  umomit  of 
my  loan  in  full.    It  was  not  in  accordance  with  my 
preconceived  idea  of  him  that  he  should  return  it  at 
uU.    I  l"id  arranged  in  my  own  mind  that  he  should 
be  governed  by  the  most  honest  impulses  and  the 
most  approved  intentions  up  to  the  point  of  dcpar- 
ture.but  that  he  should  never  find  it  quite  convenient 
to  pay,  and  that  in  order  to  effect  his  final  shipment 
to  other  shore?  I  should  be  compelled  to  lend  him 
some  more  money.     In  the   far  future,  when  he 
should  be  famous  and  I  an  obscure  pauper  on  pen- 
sion, my  generous  imagination  permitted  me  to  sec 
the  loan  repaid ;  but  not  till  then.     Tlcse  arc  per- 
haps stereotyped  and  conventional  lines  to  conceive 
him  on,  but  I  ..ardly  think  that  anybody  who  has 
followed  my  little  account  to  this  point  will  think 
them  unjustifial  le.    I  looked  at  his  check  with  dis- 
gust.    That  a  man  turns  out  better  than  you  ex- 
pected is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be  annoyed 
that  your  conception  of  him  is  shattered.    You  may 
be  gratified  on  general  grounds,  but  distinctly  put 
200 


i^^jfb'mA  •? 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDKal 

out  on  por,nnnl  one,.  o,pcci«||^  .hen  ^„„r  ™,u,„. 

-on  p„„.,ed  .„  hi,  inevitable  removal'    T^Z 

the  vny  J  fe|(.  •  imi  him 

Tl.e  chock  -lood  for  ,o  much   more  than   it, 
■nonc^  v„h,e.    It  ,tood  for  „  po,.,i,,e.  n,.^,  J^^^l] 

-brCor^:!::'"';  *-  •"^^•■'»  "^-  "te 

n..ndMoLcom :;';;  ;:TeT:7"'  '"1"  "- 
>.oidor,  „  hu»ba„d.  Afi  "t:^';^'■'"''7"■ 
ti  rtw'rt*r«"™-«'''"'>°^^^ 

« ;th  »     IL  I   ;  7  I'l^^Pcrous  artist-bourKcois 

'th  a    ,1k  hat  for  S.n.chy.     I  have  in  some  L7l 

I^Kreo   he  psychological  knad..  I  .„w  the  polib^ 

Coincidence  i,  odious,  tell,  on  the  nerve,      I 

1   fri    7 7     '  '*""°— "^  "f  the  death  of  my 
old   fnend  Fry,  Superintendent  of  the  School  of 
Art  ,„  Calcutta.    The  paragraph  in  whid.  the     , 
nal  d,M,„s.,cd  poor  Fry  to  hi.  reward  was  not  unkind 

lilfirtr'"'''"^'^''^^**''-™-^^^^ 

M  ou  I  ,„e  ude  the  ren.oval  of  his  ideas  and  method, 
«  .  the  sub.t.tution  of  something  rather  more  upt 
date.  It  remarkea  that  the  Bengali  student  had 
boon  p.„ned  down  long  enough  to^drawLg  jL  : 
casts,  and  declared  that  something  should  be  done 
to  awake  w,th.n  him  the  creative  idea.  I  remember 
201 


m 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

the  phrase,  it  seemed  so  directly  to  suggest  that  the 
person  to  awake  it  should  be  Ingersoll  Annour^ 
^     I  turned  the  matter  over  in  my  mmd ;  indeed,   or 
the  best  part  of  an  hour  my  brain  revolved  with  lit- 
k  else.    The  billet  was  an  excellent  one,  with  very 
decent  pay  and  charming  quarters.     It  carried  a 
pension!  it  was  the  completest  sort  of  provision. 
CHas  a  long  vacation,  with  opportunities  for 
original   effort,   and   I   had   heard   Fry    cU     1  c 
.ofk    interesting.      Fry    was    the    kind    ot    n  .ui 
to  be  interested  in  anything  that  gave  him  a  liv 
ing,  but  there  was  no  reason  why  a  more  cap- 
tlot    spirit,     in    view    of    the    great    advantages, 
lid 'not    accommodate    itself    ^o    the    -tm 
that  might  present  itself.     The  post  was  in  the 
'   ;  of  'he  Government  of  Bengal,  but  that  was 
lo  reason  why  the  Government  of  Bengal  should  no 
be  grateful  in  the  difficulty  of  making  a  choice  for 
a  Wnt  from  us.     The  difficulty  was  really  great. 
Thev  would  have  to  write  home  and  advertise  in  the 
Athen.um-for  some  reason  Indian  Governments 
always  advertise  educational   appomtmenls  in  the 
Athen^um;  it  is  a  habit  which  dates  from  the  dajs 
of  John  Company-and  that  would  mean  delay 
And  then  the  result  might  be  a  disappointment 
Might    Armour   not    also   be    a    disappointment? 
That  I  really  could  not  say.    A  new  man  is  ah^ays 
a  speculation,  and  departments,  like  individuals, 
have  got  to  take  their  luck. 
202 


AX     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

The  Viceroy  was  so  delighted— everybody  was 
so  dchglited— with  the  medal  picture  that  the  mer- 
est brci  th  blown  among  them  would  secure  Armour's 
nominPtion.  Should  I  blow  the  breath?  These 
happy  thoughts  must  always  occur  to  somebody. 
This  one  had  occurred  to  me.  Ten  to  one  it  would 
occur  to  nobody  else,  and  last  of  all  to  Armour  him- 
self. The  advertisement  might  already  be  on  its 
way  home  to  the  Athciueum. 

It  would  make  everything  possible.  It  would 
throw  a  very  different  complexion  over  the  idyl.  It 
would  turn  that  interlacing  wreath  of  laurels  and 
of  poppies  into  the  strongest  bond  in  the  world. 
I  would  simply  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
But  there  was  no  harm  in  asking  Armour  to  dine 
with  me;  I  sent  the  note  off  by  messenger  after 
breakfast  and  told  the  steward  to  put  a  magnum  of 
Ponnnery  to  cool  at  seven  precisely.  I  had  some 
idea,  I  suppose,  of  drinking  with  Armour  to  his 
eternal  discomfiture.  Then  I  went  to  the  office  with 
a  mind  cleared  of  responsibility  and  comfortably 
pervaded  with  the  glow  of  good  intentions. 

The  moment  I  saw  the  young  man,  punctual 
and  inmiediate  and  a  little  uncomfortable  about  the 
cuffs,  I  regretted  not  having  asked  one  or  two  more 
fellows.  It  might  have  spoiled  the  occasion,  but  it 
would  have  s;ived  the  situation.  That  single  glance 
of  my  accustomed  eye— alas!  that  it  was  so  well 
accustomed— revealed  him  anxious  and  screwed  up, 
'*  203 


I 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

as  nervous  as  a  cat,  but  determined,  revealed-how 
well  I  knew  the  signs '-that  he  had  something  con- 
fidential  and   important  and  highly    personal  to 
communicate,  a  matter  in  which  I  could,  if  I  only 
would,  be  of  the  greatest  possible  assistance,    i  rom 
these  appearances  twenty  years  had  taught  me  to 
fly  to  any  burrow,  but  your  dinner-table  offers  no 
retreat;  you  are  hoist,  so  to  speak,  on  your  own 
carving-fork.    There  are  men,  of  course,  and  even 
women,  who  have  scruples  about  taking  advantage 
of  so  intimate  and  unguarded  an  opportunity,  but 
Armour,  I  rapidly  decided,  was  not  one  of  these 
His  sophistication  was  progressing,  but  it  hal  not 
reached    that    point.       He    wanted    something-I 
flew  instantly  to  the  mad  conclusion  that  he  wanted 
Dora.    I  did  not  pause  to  inquire  why  he  should  ask 
her  of  me.    It  had  seemed  for  a  long  time  eminently 
proper  that  anybody  who  wanted  Dora  should  ask 
her  of  me.    The  application  was  impossible,  but  ap- 
plications nearly  always  were  impossible      Nobody 
knew  that  better  than  the  Secretary  to  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  in  the  Home  Department. 

I  squared  my  shoulders  and  we  got  through  the 
soup.  It  was  necessary  to  apologize  for  the  fish. 
"  I  suppose  one  must  remember,"  I  said,  "  that  it 
has  to  climb  six  thousand  feet,"  when  suddenly  he 

burst  out.  , 

"  Sir  William  Lamb  tells   me,"   he   said,   nnd 
stopped  to  swallow  some  wine,  "  that  there  ,s  some- 
204 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 
thing   very  good  going  i„  Calcutta  and  that   I 
«askyoutol,e,p„etogetit.     Ala/l?  .,  " 

bo  tl>e  miserable  idea-the  happy  thought 
Jmd  occurred  to  somebody  else  thougl't- 

;;  Js  there?  "I  sa,d,  with  interest  and  attention 
It's  something  i„  the  School  of  Art      T 
named  Fry  has  died."  ''     '^  ""'" 

"Ah!"  I  said,   "a  man   named   Fry       He    T 
t  .nk,  was  Director  of  that  institution."' 'l   "jlj 
t  Ar,,„r  ,n  the  considering,  measuring    '^ti^ 
tt*:  ZZT  •"  '""'"''''  '-  P- 'thaf  tl 

I  am  tlnrty."     He  certainly  did  not  look  it 

but  years  often  fill  i;„l  h  *' 

"  If        7  ,        ^  ^'  "P""  "  t"'>P^rament. 
It  s  a  vile  climate." 

"  I  know.    Is  it  too  vile,  do  you  think,"  he  said 
anxiously,  "  to  ask  a  lady  to  share '  " 

tocnter^intoThlt"  ''"' ^  '""^^ '^-'^  absolutely 
My  frown  was  so  forbidding  that  he  coulrln'f 
and  didn't  dare  to  go  on.  He  Lked  dashed  ] 
d'sappointed;  he  was  really  a  fool  of  an  a^plt,  ' 
'in.te  rea<ly  to  retire  from  the  siege  on  the  fit 

«o„  that  the  gates  were  not  ^Tt;:::::;: 
at  his  approach.  ^ 

asked.^"  '""  *'""''  ^'°"  '"'"''^  "''"  teaching.?"  I 
205 


AN 


IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 


«I   can   teach.     Miss-my    only    pupil   here 

^-:it:S^::--~--Be^.i 

1'  Lwlea,c  of  the  woria  in  ^-0-/'-;';" 
At  other  times  it  haa  irritatea  mo,  that  m^.t  it  gave 
me  ttpLst  plea.u.e.     I  agreea  .ith  Inm  about 

'^^ttt.ecteahi.smo.etogoh.me.ithIsaia 

"  Send  your  application  into  tl,e  Director  of  Pub 
lifhiruotion,  nengal-Lamb  .ill  tell  you  how- 

Rna  I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

''They  were  only  too  thankful  to  get  1  ,n..  As  a 
student  It  =oemea  he  haa  been  ailigent  both  m  Lon_ 
aon  and  Paris;  he  possessea  aiplomas  or  some  such 
tbincs  bearing  names  which  were  bouna  to  have 
St'vith  f  Department  of  ^f^^^^^'^^^ 
Ivlhere.  I  felt  particularly  thankful  for  th.s, 
ToTllL  committea'to  him  if  he  haa  not  a  rag  to 

''"'The  matter  was  settka  in  three  weeks  auring 
.bich  Armour  became  .ore  ana  more  the  f>J..,n 
;n  Simla  He  was  given  every  opportunity  ot  ex 
pinen  in  the  society  of  which  he  was  about  to  be- 
rra  ormanent  iten^  He  ainea  out  four  or  five 
Zes  a  ;eek,  ana  learnea  exactly  what  to  talk  abou^^ 
He  surprisea  me  one  aay  with  a  piece  of  news  of  my 
206 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 
own  dcpurtmont,  wl.ieh  was  a  liberty  of  a  very  se- 
rious kind,  but  I  torsive  l.i.n  upon  finding  that  it 
was  not  true.     He  rode  Lamb's  weigbt-eurriers,  to 
cross  which  his  short  legs  were  barely  adequate,  and 
apart  fron>  this  disadvantage  he  did  not  ride  them 
badly.     Only  one  thing  marred  the  completeness  of 
^.e    transformation-he    didn't    dismiss    the    doc. 
Ihe  dog,  fundamentally  irreconcilable  to  any  syt- 
tem  of  classification,  was  still  and  ever  his  compan- 
ion.    It  was  a  suspicious  circumstance  if  we  had 
known;  but  we  saw  in  it  only  a  kind  heart,  and  ig- 
nored it.  " 

I  saw  little  of  Dora  Harris  at  this  time,     llak- 
mg  no  doubt  that  she  was  enjoying  her  triumph  as 
she  deserved,  I  took  the  liberty  of  supposing  that 
she  would  hardly  wish  to  share  so  intimate  a  source 
of  satisfaction.     I  met  them  both  several  times  at 
people's    houses-certain    things    had    apparently 
been  taken  for  granted-but  I  was  only  one  of  the 
httle  circle  that  wondered  how  soon  it  might  ven- 
ture upon  open  congratulations.      The  rest  of  us 
knew  as  much,  h  seemed,  as  Edward  Harris  did 
^ady  Pilkey  acked  him  point-blank,  and  he  said 
what  his  daughter  found  to  like  in  the  fellow  the 
Lord  only  knew,  and  he  was  glad  to  say  tlmt  at 
present  he  had  no  announcement  to  make.     Lady 
Pilkey  told  me  she  thought  it  very  romantic— like 
marrying     a     newspaper     correspondent— but     I 
pointed  to  the  lifelong  task,  with  a  pension  at- 
207 


\^- 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

taclicd,  of  touching  fat  young  Bengalis  to  draw, 
and  asked  her  if  i'lie  saw  extravagant  romance  in 

They  wrote  up  from  Calcutta  that  they  would 
like  to  have  a  look  at  Armour  before  n.aking  the 
final  reeomn>endation,  and  he  left  us,  I  remember, 
by  the  mail  tonga*  of  the  3d  of  June.  He  dropped 
into  my  office  to  say  good-by,  but  I  was  busy  with 
the  Member  and  could  see  nobody,  so  he  left  a  card 
with  "  P.P.C."  on  it.  I  kept  the  card  by  accident, 
and  I  kJep  it  still  by  design,  for  the  sake  of  that 

inscription.  .     „.    ,     .      .1 

Strobo  had  given  up  his  hotel  m  Simla  to  start 
one  in  Calcutta.  It  never  occurred  to  nic  that  Ar- 
mour might  go  to  Strobe's;  but  it  was,  of  course, 
the  natural  thing  for  him  to  do,  especially  as  Stro- 
bo happened  to  be  in  Calcutta  himself  at  the 
time.  He  went  and  stayed  with  Strobo,  and  every 
day  he  and  the  Sigiior,  clad  in  bath-towels,  lay  in 
closed  rooms  under  punka.is  and  had  iced  drinks 
in  the  long  tumblers  of  the  East,  and  smoked  and 
talked  away  the  burden  of  the  hours. 

Strobo  was  in  Calcutta  to  meet  a  friend,  an 
Austrian,  who  was  shortly  leaving  India  in  the 
Messagcrie  Maritimes  steamer  Dupleix  after  agree- 
able wanderings  disguised  as  a  fakir  in  Tibet;  and 
to  this  friend  was  attached,  in  what  catiacity  I 
never  thought  well  to  inquire,  a  lady  who  was  a 
•  Traveling  carriage. 
208 


M 


-«•« 


^N    IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 
Pole,  and  played  and  sang  as  well  as  Strobo  fid- 
dled.    I  believe  they  dined  together  every  night, 
Ins  precous  quartette,  and  exchanged  in  varTous 
tongues   their  impressions  of  India  under  British 
control.     "A  houri  in  stays."  the  la.ly  who  was  a 
J  ok  descnbed  it.     I  believe  she  herself  was  a  houri 
wjthout  then,.     And  at  n,id„ight.  when  the  south 
wind  was  eool  and  strong  fron,  the  river.  Strobo 
and   Armour  would   walk   up   Chowringhee   Road 
and  look  at  the  red  briek  School  of  Art  from  the 
outside  in  the  light  of  the  street  lamps,  as  a  prelim- 
inary to  our  friend's  final  acceptance  of  the  task 
ot  superintending  it  from  within. 

Wc  in  Simla,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  all  this 
at  the  tnne;  the  details  leaked  out  later  when  Strobo 
came  up  again.    I  began  to  feel  some  joyful  anx- 
iety when  in  .  letter  dated  a  week  after  Armour's 
arrival  in  Calcutta,  the  Director  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion wrote  to  inquire  whether  he  had  yet  left  Simla  • 
but  the  sweet  blow  did  not  fall  with  any  precision 
or  certainty  until  the  newspaper  arrived  contain- 
ing his  name  immediately  under  that  of  Herr  Van 
rig  and  Mme.  Dansky  in  the  list  of  passengers  who 
had  sailed  per  S.S.  Dupleix  on  the  15th  of  June  for 
Colombo.     There  it  was,  "  I.  Armour,"  as  signifi- 
cant as  ever  to  two  persons  intimately  concerned 
with  It,   but   no   longer  a   wrapping  of  mystery, 
rather  a  radiating  center  of  light.     Its  power  of 
Illumination  was  such  that  it  tried   my  eyes.     I 
209 


AN     IMPOSSIBLE    IDEAL 

closed  them  to  recall  the  outlines  of  the  School  of 
Art— it  had  been  built  in  ii  fit  of  economy— and 
the  headings  of  the  last  l)ir..'.tor's  report,  which 
I  had  kindly  sent  after  Armour  to  Calcutta.  Per- 
liaps  that  had  been  the  last  straw. 

The  real  meaning  of  the  task  of  implanting 
AVestern  ideals  in  the  Eastern  mind  rose  before  me 
when  I  thought  of  Armour's  iloing  it— how  they 
would  dwindle  in  the  process,  and  how  he  must  go 
on  handling  them  and   looking  ut   them  witliered 
and  shrunken  for  twenty-odd  years.     I  understood 
—there   was  enough  left  in   me   lo  understand— 
Armour's   terrified   esca^.  .      I   was   happy   in   the 
thought  of  him,  sailing  down  the  Bay.     The  pos- 
sibilities of   marriage,  social   position,  assured  in- 
come, support  in  old  age,  the  strands  it,  the  bond 
that  held  him,  the  bond  that  holds  us  all,  I  ul  been 
untwisting,  untwisting,   from  the  3d  of  June  to 
the  15th.     The  strand  that  stood  for  Dora  doubt- 
less was  the  last  to  break,  but  it  di.l  not  dctriict 
from  my  beatitude  to  know  that  even  this  consid- 
eration, before  the  Dupleix  and  liberty,  failed  to 

liold. 

I  kept  out  of  Miss  Harris's  way  so  studiously 
for  the  next  week  or  two  that  she  was  kind  enough 
in  the  end  to  feel  compelled  to  send  for  me.  I 
wen^  with  misgivings— I  expected,  as  may  be  im- 
agined, to  be  very  deeply  distressed.  She  met  me 
with  a  storm  of  gay  reproaches.  I  had  never  seen 
210 


AN    IMPOSSIBLE     IDEAL 

W  in  better  l.ea.,1.  or  spirits.     My  surprise  must 
me  leen  ,nore  evdcnt  than  I  supposed  or  intend- 

''•ory.     By  tlmt  tn„e  she  h«d  heard  from  Ceylon, 
a  .lehcous  letter  with  „  pen-and-ink  sketch  at  the 

bckto„,.     But  it  was  all.     .-;  she  assured  me 
V*  th  shmmg  eyes  that  it  was.     The  reason  of  her 
pla.nly   boundless   thankfulness   that  Armour   had 
run  away  fron.  the  School  of  Art  did  not  con.e  to 
the  surface  untd  I  was  just  going.     Then  I  ga.h- 
red  that  .  he  had  taken  the  post  she  would'have 
felt  compelled,  compelled  by  all  she  had  done  for 
1......  to  share  ,ts  honors  with  him;  and  this,  ever 

-nee  at  her  b.dding  he  ha<l  begun  to  gather  such 
things  up,  was  precisely  what  she  had  lost  all  in- 
clmation  to  do. 

We  were  married  the  following  October.     We 
Imd  a  b,g,  gorgeous  official  wedding,  which  we  both 
enjoyed    enormously.      I   took    furlough,    and   we 
went  hon,e,  but  we  found  London  very  expensive 
and  the  country   .ery  slow;  and  with  mv  K  C  S  I 
came   the   offer  of   the   Membership,   so   we'   went 
back    to    Sm.la    for  three    perfectly    unnecessary 
years,  which  we  now  look  back  upon  with  pleasure 
and  regret.    I  fear  that  «,,  „o  more  than  Ingersoll 
Armour    were  quite  whoic  hearted  Bohemians;  but 
I  don  t  know  thai  wc  really  ever  pretended  to  be. 


B'"t 


II 


4 


THE 
HESITATION  OF  AHSS  ANDEUSON 


•»•       <#! 


CHAPTER   I 


WiiKN  it  bonimc  known  timt  Mnclclinc  Ander- 
son Imd  Hniilly  decided  to  ^o  abrond  for  two  years, 
lier  little  circle  in  New  York  naturidly  talked  ii 
gocxl  deal,  in  review,  about  lier  curious  reason  for 
never  having  gone  before.  Ho  much  ti  happened 
afterward,  so  much  that  I  am  going  to  tell,  depends 
up<in  this  reason  for  not  going  before,  that  I  also 
must  talk  iibc  it  it  and  explain  it;  I  could  never 
bring  it  out  just  as  we  went  along.  It  would  have 
been  a  curious  reason  in  connection  with  anybody, 
but  doubly  so  as  explaining  the  behavior  of  Miss 
/.nderson,  whose  profile  gave  you  the  impression 
that  she  was  anything  but  the  shuttlecock  of  lier 
emotions.  Shortly,  her  reason  was  a  convict.  Num- 
ber 1.596,  who,  up  to  February  in  that  year,  had 
been  working,  or  rather  waiting,  out  his  sentence 
in  the  State  penitentiary.  So  long  as  he  worked  or 
waited,  Madeline  remained  in  New  York,  but  when 
in  February  death  gave  him  his  quitto-  , ,  slic  took 
her  freedom  too,  with  wide  intentions  and  many 
coupons. 

Earlier  in  his  career  Number  1596  had  been 
known    in    New   York   society    as    Mr.  Frederick 
215 


l$i- 


i 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 
Prcndcrgast,  and  for  a  little  while  he  was  dib- 
approved  there  on  the  score  of  having  engaged 
himself  to  a  Miss  Anderson,  Madeline  Anderson, 
whom  nobody  knew  anything  about.  There  was 
her  own  little  circle,  as  I  have  said,  and  it  lacked 
neither  dignity  nor  refinement,  but  I  doubt  whether 
any  member  of  it  was  valeted  from  London,  or 
could  imply,  in  conversation,  a  personal  acquaint- 
ance with  Yvette  Guilhert.  There  is  no  need,  how- 
ever, to  insist  that  Hierc  are  many  persons  of  com- 
fortable income  and  much  cultivation  in  New  York, 
who  would  not  be  met  by  strangers  having  what  are 
called  the  "  best  "  introductions  there.  The  best  so 
often  fails  to  include  the  l)ctter.  It  may  be  ac- 
cepted that  Madeline  Anderson  and  her  people  were 
of  these,  and  that  she  wondered  sometimes  during 
the  brief  days  of  her  engagement  what  it  would  be 
like  to  belong  to  the  brilliant  little  world  about  her 
that  had  its  visiting  list  in  London,  Paris,  or  St. 
Petersburg,  and  was  immensely  entertained  by  the 
gaucheries  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth. 

Then  came,  with  the  most  unexceptionable  in- 
troductions. Miss  Violet  Forde,  from  a  Sloane 
Square  address,  London.  She  came  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  a  brother,  the  only  relative  she  had  in  the 
world,  and  so  brilliant  was  the  form  of  these  young 
people  that  it  occ\irrcd  io  nobody  to  imagine  that 
it  had  the  most  precarious  pecuniary  foundation, 
must  have  faded  and  shriveled  indeed,  after  an- 
21G 


.t^fXLWWmm. 


THE   JIESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 
ether  /ear  or  two  of  anything  but  hospitality  as 
^'^  as  that  of  New  York.     Well-nourished 
and  undimmed,  however,  it  concealed  for  them  ad- 
mirably the  fact  that  it  was  the  hospitality  they 
were  after,  and  not  the  bracing  climate  or  the  de- 
s,re  to  see  the  fascinating  Americans  of  London 
and  Pans  at  home.    New  York  found  them  agreea- 
b  e  specmens  of  high-spirited  young  English  peo- 
ple, and  played  with  them  indefinitely.    Jli,.,  Forde 
when  she  sat   impcrturbably  on  a  cushion   in   the' 
nudd^e  of  the  floor  after  dinner  and  sang  to  a  gui! 
ar  the  songs  of  Albert  Chevalier,  was  an  anomaly 
>n  Enghsh  decorum  that  was  as  pleasing  to  observe 
as  It  was  amusing  to  criticize. 

The  Americans  she  met  delighted  in  drawing 
her  out-,t  was  a  pastime  that  took   the  lead  at 
dmner-part.es,  to  an  extent  which  her  hostess  often 
thought    preposterous-and    she    responded    with 
na.vete   and  vigor,  perfectly   aware  that  she  was 
sconng  all  along  the  line.     Upon  many  charming 
people  she   made  the  impression  that  she  was  a 
type  of  the  most  finished  class  of  what  they  called 
tnghsh  socety  girls,"  that  she  represented  the 
best   they   could   do   over   there   in   this   direction. 
As  a  ^,,  ter  of  fact  she  might  have  sat  to  any  of 
those  "black  and  white"  artists,  who  draw  town- 
.sh  young  women  of  London,  saying  cynical  things 
to  young  men  in  the  weekly  papers.    That  was  her 
t.vpe,  and  .f  you  look  for  her  picture  there,  you 
217 


.*  ■  J-J 


I 


11" 


• 


THE  HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

will  sec  that  her  face  was  very  accurately  oval,  with 
eyes  that  knew  their  value,  and  other  features  that 
didn't  very  much  matter,  except  in  so  far  as  they 
expressed  a  very  full  conception  of  the  satisfactions 
of  this  life,  and  a  wide  philosophy  as  to  methods  of 
obtaining  them.  ' 

Frederick  Frendcrgast  was  unacquainted  with 
the  popular  pictures  1  have  mentioned,  having  a 
very  reasonable  preference   for  the  illustrated  pa- 
pers of  his  own  country;  otherwise— there  is  no 
telling— he   miglit   have  observed  the   resemblance 
and  -scaped  the  State  prison,  whither  he  assuredly 
never  would  have  gone  had  he  married  Madeline 
Anderson— as  he  fully  intended  to  do  when  Miss 
Forde  came  over.     He  was  worth  at  that  time  a 
great  deal  of  money,  besides  being  more  personable 
than  any  one  would  have  believed  who  knew  him 
as  "  1596."     His  fiancee  was  never  too  obtrusively 
in  evidence,  and  if  Miss  Forde  thought  of  Miss 
Anderson  with  any  scruple,  it  was  probably  to  re- 
flect that  if  she  could  not  take  care  of  these  things 
she  did  not  deserve  to  have  them.    This  at  all  events 
was  how  her  attitude  expressed  itself  practically ; 
and  the  upshot  was  that  Miss  Anderson  lost  them. 
There  came  a  day  when  Frederick  Frendcrgast,  in 
much  discomfort  of  mind,  took  to  Violet  the  news 
that  Madeline  had  brought  their  engagement  to  an 
end.      She,  Violet,   gave  him  some  tea,   and   they 
talked  frankly  of  the  nbnird  misconception  of  the 
218 


THE  HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

lounded,  and  I'rendcrgast  went  away  much  com- 
°"  ■'  ''""^''"S   «'»1'^'»-      She,   with   what  both   the 

mother  and  sister  to  nmve  to  Brooklyn;  and  so  far 
"  f  thoroug,..fares  and  soeial  theaters  of  nI 
^ork  were  concerned,  the  city  over  the  river  JZ 

two  months  ater,  l,o  was  united  to  Miss  FordeTn' 
Grace  Church,  and  that  after  the  fact,  tl,cir  m  odv 
be.n«  brought  to  her  inner  sense  next  da^  Z  tje 
niarnage  notice  in  the  Tribune  ^ 

1  redcnck  Prendergast,  to  dwell  upon  what  Mad- 
ehne  Anderson  undeniably  felt.  Besides  lerlmo- 
lons  were  not  destructively  acute,  they  only  lasTed 
longer  than  any  one  could  have  either  expected  or 
approved.  She  suffered  for  bin,  .s  well;  she  saw  a 
Plamly  as  he  did  the  first  sordid  consequ  nccs  of  W 
mistake  the  afternoon  he  came  to  solicit  her  fri  nd 

2  t:>?^'"*'"''^^''-^^'"--'^'^-the„;^^^^ 

haps,     hat   her   responsibility    in   allowing   Violet 
Fordo  to  spod  his  life  for  him  began  to  sugges 

t     :'.    ""P  '"  *''^*  "-"^  ^''^  "'--^d  thought  of  the 

He  was  not  permitted  to  come  again;  but  he  went 
'*  219 


L.:.M 


^ik^  Fi^^.^: 


lFi„^ 


II 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 
away  lightened,  inasmuch  as  he  had  added  his 
burden  to  hers. 

When  a  year  later  the  national  credit  involved 
that  of  Prendergast's  firm,  Madeline  read  financial 
articles  in  the  newspapers  with  heavy  concern,  sur- 
prising her  family  with  views  on  «  sound  money  " ; 
and  when,  shortly  afterward,  his  partners  brought 
that  unhappy  young  man  before  the  criminal  courts 
for  an  irregular  use  of  the  firm's  signature,  which 
further  ir.Yolved  it  beyond  hope  of  extrication, 
there  was  no  moment  of  the  day  which  did  not  find 
her,  in  spirit,  beside  him  there. 

The  case  dragged  on  through  appeal,  and  the 
decision  of  the  lower  courts  was  not  reversed.    The 
day  this  became  known  the  fact  also  transpired  that 
poor  Prcndergast  would  never  live  to  complete  his 
ten  years'  term  of  imprisontne.nt.    He  went  to  pris- 
on with  hardly  more  than  one  lung,  and  in  the  most 
favorable  physical  condition  to  get  rid  of  the  other. 
Mrs.  Prendergast  wept  a  little  over  the  installation, 
and  assured  Frederick  that  it  was  perfectly  absurd; 
they   were   certain  to  get  him   out  again;   people 
always  got  people  out  again  in  America.    She  took 
him  grapes  and  flowers  once  a  week  for  about  a 
month,  and  then  she  siiilcu  for  Europe.    She  put  it 
about  that  her  stay  was  to  bf.  as  brief  as  was  con- 
sistent with  the  transaction  of  certair  necessary  bus- 
iness in  London ;  but  she  never  came  back,  and  Mad- 
eline Anderson  had  taken  her  place,  in  sc  far  as  the 
220 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

grapes    and    flowers    were    concerned,    for    many 
months,  when  the  announcement  of  his  wife's  death 
reaciied  Prendergast  in  an  English  paper  published 
in  Paris.     About  a  year  after  that  it  began  to  be 
thought  singular  how  he  picked  up  in  health,  and 
Sladehne's  mother  and  sister  occasionally  romanced 
about  the  possibility  of  his  recovering  and  marry- 
ing her  after  all— they  had  an  enormous  opinion 
of  the  artistic  virtue  of  forgiveness— but  it  was  not 
a  contingency  ever  seriously  contemplated  by  Miss 
Anderson   herself.      Her  affection,   pricked   on   by 
remorse,  had  long  satisfied  itself  with  the  duties  of 
her  ministry.     If  slic  would  not  leave  liim  until  he 
died,  it  was  because  there  was  no  one  but  herself  to 
brighten  the  long  day  in  the  prison  hospital  for 
liii.n,  because  she  had  thrown  liini  into  the  arms  of 
the  woman  who  had  deserted  him,  because  he  rep- 
resented in  her  fancy  her  life's  only  budding  to- 
ward  the  sun.      Her  patience   lasted   through  six 
years,  which  was  four  years  longer  than  any  doc- 
tor had  given  Frederick   Prendergast  to  live;  but 
when  one  last  morning  she  found  an  empty  bed,  and 
learned  that  Number  1.596  had  been  discharged  in 
his  coffin,  she  rose  from  the  shock  with  the  sense  of 
a  task  fully  performed  and  a  well-developed  desire 
to  see  what  else  there  might  be  in  the  world. 

She  announced  her  intention  of  traveling  for 
a  year  or  two  with  a  maid,  and  her  family  expressed 
the  usual  acquiescence.     It  wjuld  help  her,  they 
221 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

said,  to  "  sliakc  it  off  " ;  but  they  said  that  to  one 
another.  They  were  not  aware— and  it  would  have 
spoiled  an  ideal  for  them  if  they  had  been— that  she 
had  shaken  it  oiF,  quite  completely,  into  Prender- 
gast's  grave. 

This  was  the  curious  reason  why  Miss  Ander- 
son's travels  were  so  long  postponed. 


322 


^ 


mm. 


CHAPTER    II 

It  was  Madeline's  fancy  to  enjoy  ti.e  contrast 
between  West  and  East  in  all  its  sharpness,  so  she 
and  Brookes  en.harked  at  Sun  Francisco  for  Yo- 
kohama.    Their  wanderings  in  Japan  were  ideal, 
m  spite  of  Brookes's  ungrateful  statement  that  she 
could  have  done  with  fewer  eggs  and  more  bacon- 
and  .Madeline  prolonged  the  appeal  of  the  country 
to  her  sense  of  humor  and  fantasy,  putting  off  her 
departure  for  India  from  week  to  week.     She  went 
at  last  in   March;   and   found   herself  down   with 
fever  at  Benares  in  the  middle  of  o.:e  particularly 
hot  April,  two  months  after  the  last  of  her  fellow 
travelers  had  sailed  from  Bombay,  haunted  on  her 
bakmg  pillow  by  pictorial  views  of  the  burning 
ghat  and  the  vultures.     The  station  doctor,  using 
appalling  language  to  her  punkah-coolie,  onlcrod 
her  to  the  hills;  and  thus  it  was  that  she  went  to 
Simla,  where  she  had  no  intention  of  going,  and 
where  this  story  really  begins. 

Brookes  has  always  declared  that  Providence 
in  sending  Miss  Anderson  to  Simla  had  it  in  mind 
to  prevent  a  tragedy;  but  as  to  that  there  is  room 
for  a  difference  of  opinion :  besides  I  can  not  be  an- 
ticipated by  Brookes. 

223 


M   'I 
''ft 


W  ■*    iiJfm'if'i^'% 


7wi.. 


I 


THE   HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDERSON 
"  It's  the  oddest  place  iinafrinable,  and  in  many 
ways  the  most  delightful,"  Madeline  wrote  to  her 
sister  Adele,  "  this  microcosm  of  Indian  official  so- 
ciety withdrawn  from  all  the  worl.l,  and  playinR  at 
beiiiK  a  municipality  on  three  Himalayan  mountain- 
tops.    You  can't  imagine  its  individuality,  its  airy, 
unsubstantial,  superior  poise.  How  can  I  explain 
to  you  elderly  gentlemen,  whose  faces  express  daily 
electric  communication  with  the  Secretary  of  State, 
playing  tennis  violently  every  single  afternoon  in 
striped  flannels-writing  letters  of  admonition  to 
the  Amir  all  day  long,  and  in  the  evening,  with  the 
assistance  of  yellow  wigs  and  make-up  sticks  from 
the  Calcutta  hair-dresser,  imagining  that  they  pro- 
duce things,  poor  dears,  only  a  VMc  less  well  done 
than  is  done  at  the  Lyceum?     Nothing  is  beyond 
them.     I  assure  you  they  are  contemplating  at  this 
moment  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray.     The  effect 
of  remoteness  from  the  world,  I  suppose,  and  the 
enormous  mutual  appreciation  of  people  who  have 
watched  each  other  climb.     For  to  arrive  officially 
at  Simla  they  have  had  to  climb  in  more  ways  than 
one  It  is  all  so  hilarious,  so  high-spirited, 

so  young  and  yet,  my  word!  what  a  cult  of  official 
dignity  underlying!  I  saw  a  staff-officer  in  full 
uniform,  red  and  white  feathers  and  all,  going  to 
the  birthday  dinner  at  the  Viceroy's  the  other  even- 
ing in  a  perambulator— rickshaw,  you  know,  such 
as  they  have  in  Japan.  That  is  typical  of  the 
8S4! 


THE   HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDEKSOX 

place.  All  the  honors  and  dignities — iind  a  per- 
ambulator to  put  them  in — or  ii  ridiculous  little 
white-washed  house  made  of  mud  and  tin,  and  call- 
ing itself  Warwick  Castle,  Blenheim,  Abbotsl'oid ! 
They  haven't  a  very  good  hold,  these  Simla  resi- 
dences, and  sometimes  they  slip  fifty  yards  or  so 
down  the  mountain-side,  but  the  chimneys  (bad  pun 
coming)  are  never  any  more  out  of  drawing  than 
they  were  before. 

"  Yet — never  forget — the  queer  little  place  has 
a  nobility,  drawn  I  suppose  from  high  standards 
of  conduct  in  essentials. 

"...  This  matter  of  precedence  is  a  bore  for 
an  outsider.  I  am  very  tired  of  being  taken  in  to 
dinner  by  subalterns,  because  I  have  no  '  official 
position.'  Something  of  the  kind  was  offered  me, 
by  the  way,  the  other  day,  by  a  little  gunner  with 
red  eyelids,  in  the  Ordnance  Department,  named 
McDermott — Captain  McDermott.  He  took  my 
declining  very  cheerfully,  said  he  knew  Americans 
didn't  like  Englishmen,  who  hadn't  been  taught  to 
pronounce  their  '  g's,'  but  hoped  I  would  change 
my  mind  before  the  rains,  when  he  was  goin'  down. 
Of  course  I  sha'n't.  The  red  eyelids  alone.  .  .  . 
I  am  living  in  a  boarding-house  precisely  under  the 
deodars,  and  have  'tiffin'  with  Jlrs.  Hauksbee 
every  day  when  neither  of  us  are  having  it  any- 
where else.  And  I've  been  told  the  original  of 
'  General  Bangs,'  '  that  most  immoral  man.'  You 
225 


I 


m 


M 


I 


THi:   HESITATION   OF   MISS   ANI)F,US{)>f 

reiiicniber,  don't  you,  llic  liilioKriiph  incident — I 
niTiln't  quote  it.  It  ividly  liuppiiu'd !  iind  the 
Gcnirnl  still  livis,  none  tin  hdisc-  peilmps  nitlur 
Ix'ttir.  Qnitr  half  the  piopio  siTin  niiitiriidizations 
of  Kiplin}^,  and  it's  wry  intiTistiiiff;  but  one 
mustn't  say  so  if  one  wants  to  be  popular.  Talk- 
ing of  materializations,  I  saw  tlie  original  of  Craw- 
ford's Mr.  Isaaes,  too,  the  other  day.  lie  used  to 
be  u  diamond  agent  among  the  native  prinees  when 
Crawford  knew  him.  When  I  saw  liim  he  was  auc- 
tioning otf  his  colleelion  of  curios  and  things. 
These  types  of  novelists  look  wonderfully  little  im- 
paired; I  suppose  it's  the  dry  air. 

"  P.S. — Urookes  is  also  cjuite  Imppy.  She  was 
mucli  struck,  on  arriving,  by  an  apparent  anomaly 
in  nature.  '  Have  you  noticed,  ma'am,'  said  she, 
'  how  at  this  height  all  the  birds  arc  crows  and 
monkeys ?'  " 

Miss  A:.derson  described  Simla  exhaustively  in 
her  letters  to  New  York.  She  touched  upon  ahnost 
every  feature,  from  Mrs.  Jlickie  and  Mrs.  Gam- 
niidgc,  whose  husbands  were  perspiring  in  the 
Plains,  and  nobody  telling  them  anything,  to  the 
much  larger  number  of  ladies  interested  in  the  work 
of  tlic  Young  Women's  Christian  Association; 
from  the  "  type  "  of  the  Military  Secretary  to  the 
Viceroy  to  that  of  Ali  Buksh,  who  sold  raw  tur- 
quoises in  a  little  carved  shop  in  the  bazaar.      I 

2::G 


^lyr^  M* 


Tin;   IIKSITATION   OF   MISS  ANDEUSOI^ 

•liould  like  fo  <iii(jte  more  of  liir  litlirs,  but  if  I  did 
1  sliould  find  iiulliiiiK  uhoiit  Colonel  llon.c,.  I,„|i.s, 
who  rtpriMMtul-slu'  oikii  iicknoHlid^rd   („  1r,- 
silf— liir  only  sirioiis  interest.     MU  Anderson  took 
llic  world  at  its  own  li^lit  valuation  as   it  caints 
liiit  she  had  a  smle  of  recojrnitions  and  acceptances, 
which  she  kept  apart  for  the  very  few,  and  Innen 
liud  claimed  a   place  in  it  llie  first  time  they  met. 
It  .seems  a  trifle  ungrateful   that   she  should  have 
left  him  out,  since  it  was  he  who  gave  her  a  stand- 
ard by   which   to  measure  the   frivolity   of  Simla. 
He  went  to  K^inklu.nas— if  be  knew  she  was  going 
—but  he  towered  almost   pictorially   above  them; 
and  when  he  talked  to  Madeline  bis  shoulders  ex- 
pre«.sed  a  resentment  of  jjossible  interruptions  that 
isolated  him  still  further.     I  would  not  suggest  that 
be  was  superior  by  conviction ;  ho  was  oidy  intent, 
whereas  most  of  the  other  people  were  extremely 
diffused,  and  discriminating,  while  the  intimacies  of 
the  rest  were  practically  coextensive  with  Govern- 
ment House  list.     Neither,  for  his  part,  would  he 
admit  that  the  tone  of  Simla  was  as  wholly  flip- 
pant as  I  have  implied.     They  often  talked'about 
it;  he  recognized  it  as  a  feature  likely  to  compel 
the   attention   of  people   from  other  parts  of  the 
world :  and  one  afternoon  be  asked  her,  with  .some 
directness,   if  she   could   see   no   tragedies   under- 
neath. 

"  Tragedies  of  the  heart .'  "  she  asked.    "  Oh,  I 


THE   HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 


i 


can  not  take  them  scriouiily.  The  emotion  ia  lo 
cjilivmcrul!  A  woman  came  to  tea  with  me  three 
days  ago,  and  made  mu  her  confessor.  It  wan  un- 
expected; if  it  liadn't  been,  I  wouldn't  have  asked 
her  to  tea.  Slie  was  no  unhappy  that  she  forgot 
about  tlie  rouge,  and  it  all  came  off  on  her  hand- 
kerchief when  she  cried.  The  man  likes  somebody 
else  bette.  *hi8  season.  Well,  I  gave  her  nougat 
and  cheap  cynicisms,  and  she  allowed  herself  to  be 
comforted!  Why,  the  loves  of  kitchen-maids  are 
more  dignified." 

They  were  riding  on  the  broad  four-mile  road, 
blasted  out  of  the  rock,  that  winds  round  Jakko. 
The  deodars  stood  thick  above  them,  with  the  sun- 
light filtering  through ;  a  thousand  feet  below  lay 
the  little  square  fields,  yellow  and  green,  of  the 
King  of  Koti.  The  purple-brown  Himalayas 
shouldered  the  eye  out  to  the  horizon,  am 
the  Snows  lifted  themselves,  hardiy  more  j;  .  .'•■ 
than  the  drifted  clouds,  except  for  a  glca.  - '  ic 
in  their  whiteness.  A  low  stone  wall  ran  along  the 
verge  of  the  precipice,  and,  looking  down,  they  saw 
tangled  patches  of  the  white  wild  rose  of  the  Hima- 
layas, waving  and  drooping  over  the  abyss. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Innes,  "  you  are  not  even 
upon  the  fringe  of  the  situation." 

"  It's  the  situation  as  I  see  it." 

"  Then — excuse    me — you    do    not    see    deep 
enough.     That  poor  lady  suffered,  I  suppose,  to 
328 


ii*.^ 


LidJ^.ta     fe,  :' 


THE  HKSITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

the  extent  of  her  capacity.     You  would  not  liuvc 
increased  it." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  should  have  preferred  not 
to  measure  it." 

"  Hesides,  that  was  not  quite  the  sort  of  thing  I 
had  in  iiiind.  I  was  tliinking  more  of  the — sep- 
arations." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Madeline. 

"  It's  nol  fair  to  ask  women  to  live  much  in  In- 
dia. Sometimes  it's  the  children,  sometimes  it's 
ill  liealth,  sometimes  it's  natural  antipathy  to  the 
place;  there's  always  a  reason  to  take  them 
away." 

Yes,"  said  Madeline,  turning  a  glance  of 
scrutiny  on  him.  His  face  was  impassive;  he  was 
watching  mechanically  for  a  chance  to  slay  a  teas- 
ing green  spider-fly. 

"  That  is  the  beginning  of  the  tragedy  I  was 
thinking  of.  Time  does  the  rest,  time  and  the 
aridity  of  scparaticns.  How  many  men  and  women 
can  hold  themselves  together  with  letters?  I  don't 
mean  aging  or  any  physical  change.  I  don't 
mean  change  at  all." 

"No,"  said  Madeline,  nnd  this  time,  though 
her  curiosity  was  greater,  she  did  not  look  at  him. 

"  No.     The  mind  could  accustom  itself  to  ex- 
pect  that,  and  so  forestall  the   blow,  if  it  really 
would  be  a  blow,  which  I  doubt.     For  myself,  I'm 
pretty  sure  that  notliing  of  that  kind  could  have 
SS9 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

much  eiFect  upon  one's  feeling,  if  it  were  tlie  real 
thing."  He  spoke  practically  to  himself,  as  if 
he  had  reasoned  this  out  many  times. 
"  Oh,  no !  "  said  Madeline. 
"  But  separation  can  do  a  worse  thing  than 
that.  It  can  reintroduce  people,  having  deprived 
them  of  their  mutual  illusion  under  which  they 
married.  If  they  lived  together  the  illusion  would 
go,  I  suppose,  but  custom  and  comfort  would  step 
in  to  prevent  a  jar.  There  never  would  be  that 
awful  revelation  of  indifference." 

He  stopped  sharply,  and  the  hope  went  through 
Madeline's  mind  that  her  face  expressed  no  personal 
concern  for  him.  There  was  a  small  red  stain  in 
the  brown  of  his  cheek  as  he  looked  at  her  to  find 
out,  and  he  added,  "  I've  known— in  Bombay- 
one  or  two  bad  cases  of  that.  But,  of  course,  it  is 
the  wife  who  suffers  most.    Shall  we  canter  on?  " 

"  In  a  minute,"  said  Madeline,  and  he  drew  his 
rein  again. 

She  could  not  let  this  be  the  last  word;  he 
must  not  imagine  that  she  had  seen,  through  the 
simple  crystal  of  his  convictions,  the  personal  sit- 
uation that  gave  them  to  him. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "  you 
know  the  Anglo-Indian  world  and  I  don't.  You 
must  have  observed  this  that  you  speak  of  it;  it 
sounds  only  too  probable.  And  I  confess  it  makes 
my  little  impression  very  vulgar  and  superficial." 
230 


Kf--- 


"W>'''W.-fk 


k'  'ririir-'A-'z. 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

She  turned  her  head  and  a  candid  smile  to  him. 
"  All  the  same,  I  fancy  that  the  people  who  are 
capable  of  suffering  much  that  way  are  the  excep- 
tions. And — I  don't  care — I  believe  there  is  more 
cheap  sentiment  in  this  place  than  the  other  kind. 
What  do  you  think  I  heard  a  woman  say  the  other 
day  at  a  tiffin-party  ?  '  No  man  has  touched  my 
heart  since  I've  been  married,'  she  proclaimed, 
'  except  my  husband ! '    At  a  <i//in-party !  " 

She  heard  the  relief  in  Innes's  laugh  and  was 
satisfied. 

"  How  does  it  happen,"  he  said,  "  that  women 
nowadays  are  critical  of  the  world  so  young  ?  " 

"  1  shall  be  thirty  in  September,  and  we  no 
longer  look  at  society  through  a  tambour-frame," 
she  said,  hardily. 

"  And  I  shall  be  forty-three  next  month,  but 
hitherto  I  have  known  it  to  produce  nothing  like 
you,"  he  returned,  and  if  there  was  ambiguity  in 
his  phrase  there  was  none  in  his  face. 

Miss  Anderson  made  with  her  head  her  little 
smiling  gesture — Simla  called  it  very  American — 
which  expressed  that  all  chivalrous  speech  was  to 
be  taken  for  granted  and  meant  nothing  what- 
ever ;  and  as  they  turned  into  the  Ladies'  Mile  gave 
her  horse  his  head,  and  herself  a  chance  for  medi- 
tation. She  thought  of  the  matter  again  that 
evening  before  her  little  fire  of  snapping  deodar 
twigs,  thought  of  it  intently.  She  remembered  it 
231 


■-TT 


i   W^. 


m  -Wa. 


m- 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

all  with  perfect  distinctness ;  she  might  have  been 
listening  to  a  telephonic  reproduction. 

It  was  the  most  intimate  glimpse  Inncs  had 
given  her  of  himself,  and  it  brouglit  her  an  ex- 
citement which  she  did  not  think  of  analyzing. 
She  wrung  from  every  sentence  its  last  possibility 
of  unconscious  meaning,  and  she  found  when  she 
had  finished  that  it  was  eleven  o'clock. 

Then  she  went  to  bed,  preferring  not  to  call 
Brookes,  with  the  somewhat  foolish  feeling  of  be- 
ing unable  to  account  for  her  evening.  Her  last 
reflection  before  she  slept  shaped  itself  in  her  mind 
in  definite  words. 

"  There  are  no  children,"  it  ran,  "  and  her 
health  has  always  been  good,  he  says.  She  must 
have  left  him  after  that  first  six  months  in  Luck- 
now,  because  of  a  natural  antipathy  to  the  coun- 
try— and  when  she  condescended  to  come  out 
again  for  a  winter  he  met  the  different  lady  he 
thinks  about.  With  little  hard  lines  around  the 
mouth  and  common  conventional  habits  of  thought, 
full  of  subservience  to  his  official  superiors,  and 
perfectly  uninterested  in  him  except  as  the  source 
of  supplies.  But  I  don't  know  why  I  should  want 
her  to  be  so  disagreeable." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs.  Innes,  traveling  at 
the  moment  with  the  mails  from  London  to  Bom- 
bay, was  hastening  to  present  to  Miss  Anderson 
features  astonishingly  different. 
232 


CHAPTER   ni 

The  lady  guests  at  Peliti's — Mrs.  Jack  Owen 
and  the  rest — wep,  giving  a  tea  in  the  hotel  pavil- 
ion. They  had  the  band,  the  wife  of  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief, the  governess  from  Viceregal 
Lodge  and  one  little  Viceregal  girl,  three  A.D.C.'s, 
one  member  of  Council,  and  the  Archdeacon. 
These  were  the  main  features,  moving  among  a 
hundred  or  so  of  people  more  miscellaneous,  who, 
like  the  ladies  at  Peliti's,  had  come  up  out  of  the 
seething  Plains  to  the  Paradise  of  the  summer  cap- 
ital. The  Pavilion  overhung  the  Mall;  looking 
down  one  could  see  the  coming  and  going  of  leis- 
urely Government  peons  in  scarlet  and  gold,  Cash- 
miri  venders  of  great  bales  of  embroideries  and 
skins,  big-turbancd  Pahari  horse-dealers,  chaffer- 
ing in  groups,  and  here  and  there  a  mounted  Sec- 
retary-sahib trotting  to  the  Club.  Beyond,  the 
hills  dipped  blue  and  bluer  to  the  plains,  and 
against  them  hung  a  single  waving  yellow  labur- 
num, a  note  of  imagination.  Madeline  Anderson 
was  looking  at  it  when  Mrs.  Mickie  and  Mrs.  Gam- 
midge  came  up  with  an  affectionate  observation 
upon  the  cut  of  her  skirt,  after  which  Mrs.  Mickie 
233 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 


liurkcd  back  to  what  they  had  been  talking  about 
before. 

"  She's  straiglit  enough  now,  I  suppose,"  tliis 
lady  said. 

'•  S!ie  goes  down.  But  slic  gives  people  a  good 
deal  of  latitude  for  speculation." 

"  Who  is  this.? "  asked  Madeline.  "  I  ask  for 
information,  to  keep  out  of  her  way.  I  find  I  am 
developing  the  most  shocking  curiosity.  I  must  be 
in  a  position  to  check  it." 

The  ladies  exchanged  hardly  perceptible 
glances.  Tlien  Mrs.  Gammidge  said,  "  Mrs. 
Innes,"  and  looked  as  if,  for  the  moment,  at  any 
rate,  she  would  withhold  further  judgment. 

"  But  you  mustn't  avoid  the  poor  lady,"  put 
in  Jlrs.  Jlickie,  "  simply  because  of  her  past.  It 
wouldn't  be  fair.     Besides—    — " 

"Her  past.'"  Madeline  made  one  little  effort 
to  lork  indifferent,  and  then  let  the  question  leap 
up  in  her. 

"  Jly  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gammidge,  with  brief 
impatience,  "  he  married  her  in  Cairo,  and  she  was 
— dancing  there.  Case  of  chivalry,  I  believe, 
though  there  are  different  versions.  Awful  row 
in  the  regiment-  -he  had  to  take  a  year's  leave. 
Then  he  succeeded  to  the  command,  and  Hie  Twen- 
ty-third were  ordered  out  here.  She  came  with 
him  to  Lucknow — and  made  slaves  of  every  one  of 
them.  They'll  swear  to  you  now  that  she  was 
234. 


W' 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 
staying  at  Shcplicard's  with  an  invalid  mother 
wlien  lie  met  her.  And  now  she's  accepted  like 
everybody  else;  and  tliat's  all  there  is  about  it." 

"There's  nothing  in  that,"  said  Madeline, 
determinedly,  "  to  prove  that  she  wasn't— respec- 
table." ^ 

"  N— no.  Of  course  not,"  and  again  the  eye 
of  Jirs.  Gammidge  met  that  of  Mrs.  Mickic. 

"Though,  you  sec,  love,"  added  the  latter 
lady,  "  it  would  have  been  nicer  for  his  people— 
they've  never  spoken  to  him  since— if  she  had  been 
making  her  living  otherwise  in  Cairo." 

"  As  a  barmaid,  for  instance,"  said  Madeline, 
sarcastically. 

"As  a  barmaid,  for  instance,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Gammidge,  calmly. 

"  But  Simla  isn't  related  to  him— Simla  doesn't 
care!"  Mrs.  Mickie  exclaimed.  "Everybody  will 
be  as  polite  as  possible  when  she  turns  up.  You'll 
sec.  You  knew,  didn't  you,  that  she  was  coming 
out  m  the  Caledonia?" 

"  No,"  said  Madeline.  She  lookr-l  carefully 
where  she  was  going  to  put  her  coffee-cup,  and  then 
she  glanced  out  again  at  the  laburnum  hanging 
over  the  plains.  "  I— I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  These 
separations  you  take  so  lightly  out  here  arc  miscra- 
ble,  tragic." 

_     The  other  ladies  did  not  exchange  glances  this 
time.     Miss  Anderson's  change  of  tone  was  too 
marked  for  comment  which  she  might  have  detected 
^«  335 


Mii.jm 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 
"  Colonel  Inncs  got  the  telegram  this  morning. 

She  wired  from  Brindisi,"  Mrs.  Gammidgc  said. 
«  Does  he  seem  pleased?  "  asked  Mrs.  Mickic, 

demurely. 

"  He  said  he  was  afraid  she  would  find  it  very 
hot  coming  up  here  from  Bombay.  And,  of  course, 
he  is  worried  about  a  house.    When  a  man  has  been 

living  for  months  at  the  Club 

"  Of  course,  poor  fellow!  I  do  love  that  dear 
old  Colonel  Inncs,  though  I  can't  say  I  know  him  a 
bit.  He  won't  take  the  trouble  to  be  nice  to  me, 
but  I  am  perfectly  certain  he  must  be  the  dearest 
old  thing  inside  of  him.  Worth  any  dozen  of  these 
little  bow-wows  that  run  round  after  rickshaws, 
said  Mrs.  Mickie,  with  candor. 

"I  think  he's  a  ridiculous  old  glader,"  Mrs. 
Gammidge  remarked,  and  Mrs.  Mickie  looked  at 
Madeline  and  said,  "  Slap  her!" 

"  What  for?  "  asked  Miss  Anderson,  with  com- 
posure. "  I  dare  say  he  is — occasionally.  It  isn't 
a  bad  thing  to  be,  I  should  think,  in  Indian  temper- 
atures." ^ 

"  I  guess  you  got  it  that  time,  dear  lady,  said 
Mrs.  Mickie  to  Mrs.  Gammidge,  as  Madeline 
slipped  toward  the  door. 

«  Meant  to  be  cross,  did  she  ?  How  silly  of  her ! 
If  she  gives  her  little  heart  away  like  that  often, 
people  will  begin  to  make  remarks." 

"  The  worst  of  that  girl  is,"  Mrs.  Mickie  con- 
236 


'jr» '■'-^id-.T^ismfiV'^Km  m.w'  r 


THE   HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDERSON 

tinued,  "  that  you  never  can  depend  upon  her. 
For  du>s  together  she'll  be  just  as  giddy  and  jolly 
as  anybody  and  then  suddenly  she'll  give  you  a 
nasty  superior  bit  of  ice  down  the  back  of  your 
neck  like  that.  I've  got  her  coming  to  tea  to-mor- 
row afternoon,"  Mrs.  Jliekie  added,  with  sudden 
gloom,  "  and  little  Lord  Billy  and  all  that  set  are 
coming.  They'll  tlirow  buns  at  each  other— I  know 
they  will.  What,  in  Heaven's  name,  made  me  ask 
her?  " 

"  Oh,  she'll  have  recovered  by  then.  You  must 
make  allowance  for  the  shock  we  gave  her,  poor 
dear.  Consider  how  you  would  feel  if  Lady  Word- 
ley  suddenly  appeared  upon  the  scene,  and  demand- 
ed devotion  from  Sir  Frank." 

"  She  wouldn't  get  it,"  :Mrs.  Jliekic  dimpled 
candidly.  "  Frank  always  loses  his  heart  and  his 
conscience  at  the  same  time.  But  you  don't  sup- 
pose there's  anything  serious  in  this  affair?  Pure 
pretty  platonics,  I  should  call  it." 

IMrs.  Gammidge  lifted  her  eyebrows.  "  I  dare 
say  that  is  what  they  imagine  it.  Well,  they're 
never  in  the  same  room  for  two  minutes  without  be- 
ing aware  of  it,  and  their  absorption  when  they  get 
in  a  comer — I  saw  her  keep  the  Viceroy  waiting, 
the  other  night  after  dinner,  while  Colonel  Innes 
finished  a  sentence.  And  then  she  was  annoyed  at 
the  interruption.  Here's  Kitty  Vesey,  lookin'  such 
a  dog!  Hello,  Kitty !  where  did  you  get  that  hat, 
237 


w:'\,ry.:^'jx" 


^iaat"w 


THE   HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDERSON 


wlure  did  you  get  tliat  tile?     But  that  wasn't  the 
color  of  your  hair  last  week,  Kitty !  " 

"Don't  feel  any  kind  of  a  dog"— Mrs.  Ve- 
Bcy's  pout,  tliougli  h'coniing,  wat  genuine.  "  I'm 
in  a  perfectly  furious  rage,  my  dears,  and  I'm  go- 
ing home  to  cry,  just  as  soon  as  I've  had  an  ice. 
What  do  you  think — they  won't  let  me  have  Val  for 
Captain  Wynne's  part  in  The  Outcast  Teiirl — 
they  say  he's  been  tried  before,  and  he's  a  stick. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  brutes  ?  They  want  mc 
to  act  with  Major  Dalton,  and  he's  much  too  old 
for  the  part." 

"  Kitten,"  said  Mrs.  Mickic,  with  conviction, 
"  Valentine  Drake  on  the  stage  would  be  fatal  to 
your  affection  for  him." 

"  I  don't  care,  I  won't  act  with  anybody  else  — 
I'll  throw  up  the  part.  Haven't  I  got  to  make  love 
to  the  man  ?  How  am  I  to  play  up  to  such  an  un- 
kissable-looking  animal  as  Major  Dalton?  I  shall 
certainly  throw  up  the  part." 

"  Don't  do  anything  rash,  Kitty.  If  you  do, 
they'll  probably  offer  it  to  me,  and  I  warn  you  I 
won't  give  it  back  to  you." 

"  Oh,  refuse  it,  like  a  dear!  I  am  dying  to  put 
them  in  a  hole.  It's  jealousy,  that's  what  it  is. 
Good-by,  Mrs.  Jack,  I've  had  a  lovely  time.  Val 
and  I  have  been  explaining  our  affection  to  the 
Archdeacon,  and  he  says  it's  perfectly  innocent. 
We're  going  to  get  him  to  put  it  on  paper  to  pro- 
238 


i^W 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSOX 

duce  when  Jimmy  sues  for  a  divorce,  aren't  we. 
Val?  " 

"  you're  not  going?  "  said  Mrs.  Juck  Owen. 
"  Oh,  yes,  I  must.    But  I've  enjoyed  myself  aw- 
fully, and  so  has  everybody  I've  b.cii  talking  to.    I 
say,  Mickic,  dear — about  to-morrow  afternoon— I 
suppose  I  may  bring  Val.'  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes,"  Mrs.  Mickic  replied.  "  But 
you  must  let  me  hold  his  hand." 

"  I  don't  know  which  of  you  is  the  most  ridicu- 
lous," Mrs.  Owen  remarked;  "  I  shall  write  to  both 
your  husbands  this  very  night,"  but  as  the  group 
shifted  and  left  her  alone  with  Mrs.  Gammidge,  she 
said  she  didn't  know  whether  Mrs.  Vcscy  would  be 
quite  so  chirpy  three  weeks  hence.  "  When  Jlrs. 
Inncs  comes  out,"  she  added  in  explanation ;  "  oh, 
yes,  Valentine  Drake  is  quite  her  property.  My 
own  idea  is  that  Kitty  won't  be  in  it." 

Where  the  road  past  Peliti's  dips  to  the  Mall 
Madeline  met  Horace  Innes.  When  she  appeared 
in  her  rickshaw  he  dismounted,  and  gave  the  reins 
to  his  syce.  She  sav  in  liis  eyes  the  look  of  a  per- 
son who  has  been  ul!  day  lapsing  into  meditation, 
and  rousing  liimsclf  from  it.  "  You  arc  very  late," 
she  said  as  he  came  up. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going ;  at  least,  you  are  just  com- 
ing away,  aren't  you.'  I  think  it  is  too  late.  I'll 
turn  back  with  you." 

"  Do,"  she  said,  and  looked  at  his  capable,  sen- 
239 


it- 


THE   HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 


sitive  Imnd  as  he  laid  it  on  the  side  of  her  little  cnr- 
ria^.  Miss  Andorson  liad  not  the  acromplishnient 
of  pnJm-iTadinfj,  but  »lic  took  general  manual  im- 
pressions. She  had  observed  Colonel  Innes's  hand 
before,  but  it  had  never  offered  itself  so  intimately 
to  her  inspection.  That,  pcrliaps,  was  why  the 
conviction  .seemed  new  to  her,  as  she  thought  "  He 
is  admirable — and  it  is  all  there." 

When  they  got  to  the  level  Mall  he  kept  his 
hold,  which  was  a  perfectly  natural  and  proper 
thing  for  him  to  do,  walking  alongside;  but  she 
still  looked  at  it. 

"  I  have  heard  your  good  news,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing congratulation  at  him. 

"My  good  news?  Oh,  about  my  wife,  of 
course.  Yes,  she  ought  to  be  here  by  the  end  of  the 
month.  I  thought  of  writing  to  tell  you  when  tne 
telegram  came,  and  then  I — didn't.  The  files  drove 
it  out  of  my  head,  I  fancy." 

"Heavy  day?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  absently.  They  went  along  to- 
gether in  an  intimacy  of  silence,  and  Madeline  was 
quite  aware  of  the  effort  with  which  she  said : 

"  I  shall  look  forward  to  meeting  Mrs.  Inncs." 

It  was  plain  that  his  smile  was  perfunctorj-, 
but  he  put  it  on  with  creditable  alacrity. 

"  She  will  be  delighted.     Jly  wife  is  a  clever 
woman,"  he  went  on,  "  very  bright  and  attractive. 
She  keeps  people  very  well  amused." 
210 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

"  She  must  be  a  great  lucceu  in  India,  then." 
"  I  think  »hc  u  liked.     She  has  a  tremendous 
fund  of  humor  and  spirits.    A  fellow  feels  terribly 
dull  beside  her  sometimes." 

Mttdcline  cast  o  quick  glance  at  liim,  but  he  was 
only  occupied  to  find  other  matters  with  which  he 
might  commend  his  wife. 

"  She  is  very  fond  of  animuls,"  he  said,  "and 
she  sings  and  plays  well— really  extremely  well." 
"Thot  must  be  charming,"  murmured  Mode- 
line,  privately  iterating,  "He  doesn't  mean  to 
damn  her — he  doesn't  mean  to  damn  her."  "  Have 
you  a  photograph  of  her?  " 

"  Quantities  of  them,"  he  said,  with  simplicity. 
"  You  hove  never  shown  me  one.  But  how 
^-ould  you?"  she  added  in  haste;  "o  photograph 
is  always  about  the  size  of  a  door  nowadays.  It  is 
simply  impossible  to  keep  one's  friends  and  relations 
in  a  pucketbook  as  one  used  to  do." 

They  might  have  stopped  there,  but  some  de- 
mon of  persistence  drove  Madeline  on.  Slit  be- 
sought help  from  her  imagination ;  she  was  not  for 
the  moment  honest.  It  was  an  impulse — an  equiv- 
ocal impulse — born  doubtless  of  the  equivocal  sit- 
uation, and  it  ended  badly. 

"  She  will  bring  something  of  the  spring  out 

to  you,"  said  Madeline — "  the  spring  in  England. 

How  many  years  is  it  since  you  have  seen  it?  There 

will  be  a  breath  of  the  cowslips  about  her,  and  in 

S41 


^    '1 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

her  cyc»  the  soft  wet  of  the  English  sky.  Oh,  you 
will  be  very  glad  to  nee  her."  The  girl  was  well 
aware  of  her  insincerity,  but  only  dimly  of  her 
cruelty.  She  was  drown  on  by  something  stronger 
than  her  sense  of  honesty  and  humanity,  o  deter- 
mination to  sec,  to  know,  that  swept  these  things 
away. 

Innes's  hand  lightened  on  the  rickshaw,  and  ho 
made  at  first  no  answer.    Then  he  said : 

"  She  has  been  staying  in  town,  you  know." 
There  was  just  a  quiver  of  Madeline's  eyelid; 
it  said  nothing  of  the  natural  rapocily   behind. 
This  man's  testimony   was  coming  out  in  throes, 
and  yet — it  must  be  said — again  she  probed. 

"  Then  she  will  put  you  in  touch  again,"  she 
cried ;  "  you  will  remember  when  you  see  her  all  the 
vigor  of  great  issues  and  the  fascination  of  great 
personalities.  For  n  little  while,  anyway,  after  she 
comes,  you  will  bo  in  ii  world— far  away  from  here 
— where  people  talk  and  think  and  live." 

He  looked  at  her  in  wonder,  not  understanding, 
as  indeed  how  could  he? 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  you  speak  of  what  you  have 
done  " ;  and  before  the  truth  of  this  she  cast  down 
her  eyes  and  turned  a  hot,  deep  red,  and  had  noth- 
ing to  say. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  my  wife  is  not  like  that." 
He  walked  along  in  absorption,  from  which  he 
roused  himself  with  resentment  in  his  voice. 
242 


XT 


\  11' 


m 


■u 


Tin:   HESITATION  of  M'SS  ANDERSON 

"  I  cnn  not  leave  such  a  fab  .  „;  illusion  in  your 
iiiiml.  It  irritntcs  nic  timt  it  .siiiiuiil  lie  there — 
ulwut  anyhoily  iK'ton^in^  to  me.  .My  wife  is  tiot 
in  the  kasf  what  you  imagine  her.  She  liiis  her 
virtues,  but  she  is — like  the  rest.  I  can  not  hope 
that  you  will  take  to  her,  and  she  won't  like  you 
cither — we  never  care  about  the  same  people.  And 
wc  shall  sec  nothing  of  you— nothing.  I  can  hard- 
ly believe  that  I  am  wiying  this  of  my  own  wife, 
but— I  wish  that  she  had  stayed  in  England." 

"  Mrs.  Mickic !  "  cried  Madeline  to  a  passing 
rickshaw,  "  what  are  you  rushing  on  like  that  for? 
Just  go  quietly  and  peaceably  along  with  us,  please, 
and  tell  us  what  Jlrs.  Vesey  decided  to  do  about  her 
part  in  The  Outcast  Pearl.  I'm  dining  out  to- 
night— I  must  know."  And  Jlrs.  Jlickic  was  kind 
enough  to  accompany  tlum  all  the  rest  of  the  way. 
Miss  Anderson  dined  out,  and  preferred  to  sup- 
pose that  she  had  no  time  to  think  until  she  was  on 
her  way  home  along  the  empty  road  round  .lakko 
at  eleven  o'clock  that  night.  Then  it  pleased  her 
to  get  out  of  her  rickshaw  and  walk.  There  was 
un  opulent  moon,  the  vast  hills  curving  down  to  the 
plains  were  all  gray  and  silvery,  and  the  deodars 
overhead  fretted  the  road  with  dramatic  shadows. 
About  her  hung  tlio  great  stillness  in  a  mighty 
loneliness  in  wliicli  little  Simla  is  set,  and  -'t  freed 
her  from  what  had  happened,  so  that  she  could  loo]; 
at  it  and  cry  out.  She  actually  did  speak,  pausing 
343 


m ' 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

in  the  little  pavilion  on  the  road  where  the  nurse- 
maids gather  in  the  daytime,  but  very  low,  so  that 
her  words  fell  round  her  even  in  that  silence,  and 
hardly  a  deodar  was  aware.  "  I  will  not  go  now," 
she  said.  "  I  will  stay  and  realize  that  he  is  an- 
other woman's  husband.  That  should  cure  me  if 
anything  will — to  see  him  surrounded  by  the  com- 
monplaces of  married  life,  that  kind  of  married  life. 
I  will  stay  till  she  comes  and  a  fortnight  after.  Be- 
sides, I  want  to  sec  her — I  want  to  see  how  far  she 
comes  short."  She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
the  moonlight  played  upon  her  smile  of  quiet  tri- 
umph. "  He  cares  too,"  she  said ;  "  he  cares  too, 
but  he  doesn't  know  it,  and  I  promise  you  one 
thing,  Madeline  Anderson,  you  won't  help  him  to 
find  it  out.  And  in  five  weeks  I  will  go  away  and 
leave  my  love  where  I  found  it — on  a  mountain-top 
in  the  middle  of  Asia ! " 


K:i- 


.T 


S44 


CHAPTER    IV 

Madeline  did  her  best  to  make  certain  changes 
delicately,  imperceptibly,  so  that  Innes  would  not, 
above  all  things,  be  perplexed  into  seeking  for  their 
reason.    The  walks  and  rides  came  to  a  vague  con- 
cli.sion,   and  Miss  Anderson   no  longer  kept  the 
Viceroy  or  anybody  else  waiting,  while  Innes  fin- 
ished what  he  had  to  say  to  her  in  public,  since  his 
opportunities  for  talking  to  her  seemed  to  become 
gradually  more  and  more  like  everybody  else's.    So 
long  as  she  had  been  mistress  of  herself  she  was 
indifferent  to  the  very  tolerant  and  good-natured 
gossip  of  the  hill  capital ;  but  as  soon  as  she  found 
her  citadel  undermined,  the  lightest  kind  of  com- 
ment became  a  contingency  unbearable.    In  arrang- 
ing to  make  it  impossible,  she  was  really  over-con- 
siderate   and    over-careful.      Her    soldier    never 
thought  of  analyzing  his  bad  luck  or  searching  for 
motive  in  it.    To  him  the  combinations  of  circum- 
stances that  seemed  always  to  deprive  him  of  former 
pleasures  were  simply  among  the  things  that  might 
happen.    Grieving,  she  left  him  under  that  impres- 
sion for  the  sake  of  its  expediency,  and  tried  to 
make  it  by  being  more  than  ever  agreeable  on  the 
Zi5 


# 


i 


fel  . 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

occasions  when  he  came  and  demanded  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  would  not  be  denied.  After  all,  she  consoled 
herself,  no  situation  was  improved  by  being  turned 
too  suddenly  upside  down. 

She  did  not  wholly  withdraw  his  privilege  of 
taking  counsel  with  her,  and  he  cot  tinucd  to  go 
away  freshened  and  calmed,  leaving  her  to  toss  little 
sad  reflections  into  the  fire,  and  tremulously  won- 
der whether  the  jewel  of  her  love  had  flashed  ever 
so  little  behind  her  eyes.  They  both  saw  it  a  con- 
spicuous thing  that  as  those  three  weeks  went  on, 
neither  he  nor  she  alluded  even  remotely  tn  Mrs. 
Innes,  but  the  fact  remained,  and  they  allowec  it  to 
remain. 

Nevertheless,  Madeline  knew  precisely  when 
that  lady  was  expected,  and  as  she  sauntered  in  the 
bazaar  one  morning,  and  heard  Innes's  steps  and 
voice  behind  her,  her  mind  became  one  acute  sur- 
mise as  to  whetl;cr  he  could  possibly  postpone  the 
announcement  any  longer.  But  he  immediately 
made  it  plain  that  this  was  his  business  in  stopping 
to  speak  to  her.  "  Good  morning,"  he  said,  and 
then,  "  My  wife  comes  to-morrow."  He  had  not 
told  her  a  bit  of  personal  news,  he  had  made  her 
an  official  communication,  as  briefly  as  it  could  be 
done,  and  he  would  have  raised  his  hat  and  gone  on 
without  more  words  if  Madeline  had  not  thwarted 
him.  "  What  a  stupidity  for  him  to  be  haunted 
by  afterward ! "  was  the  essence  of  the  thought 
246 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 


and  she  put  out  a  detaining 


tlmt  visited  her 
I'.und. 

"  Really !  By  the  Bombay  mail,  I  suppose — 
no,  an  hour  or  so  later ;  private  tongas  are  always 
as  much  as  that  behind  the  mail." 

"About  eleven,  I  fancy.  You— you  are  not 
inclined  for  a  canter  round  Summer  Hill  before 
breakfast?" 

"  I  am  terrified  of  Summer  Hill.  The  Turk 
always  misbehaves  there.  Yesterday  he  got  one  leg 
well  over  the  khud— I  was  thankful  he  had  four. 
Tell  me,  are  you  all  ready  for  Mrs.  Innes — every- 
thing in  the  house?    Is  there  anything  I  can  do?  " 

"Oh,  thanks  very  much!  I  don't  think  so. 
The  house  isn't  ready,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but  two 
or  three  people  have  offered  to  put  us  up  for  a  day 
or  so  until  it  is.  I've  left  it  open  till  my  wife  comes, 
as  I  dare  say  she  has  already  arranged  to  go  to 
somebody.  What  are  you  buying?  Country  to- 
bacco, upon  my  word!  For  your  men?  That's 
subversive  of  all  discipline !  " 

The  lines  on  his  face  relaxed;  he  looked  at  her 
with  fond  recognition  of  another  delightful  thing 
in  her. 

"  You  give  sugar-cane  to  your  horses,"  she  de- 
clared; "why  shouldn't  I  give  tobacco  to  mine? 
Good-by ;  I  hope  Mrs.  Innes  will  like  '  Two  Gables.' 
There  arc  roses  waiting  for  her  in  the  garden,  at 
all  events." 

247 


P 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 


"Are  there?"  he  said.  "I  didn't  notice. 
Good-by,  then." 

He  went  on  to  his  office  thinking  of  the  roses, 
and  that  they  were  in  his  garden,  and  that  Made- 
line had  seen  them  there.  He  thought  that  if  they 
were  good  roses — in  fact,  any  kind  of  roses — they 
sliould  be  t'lkcn  care  of,  and  he  asked  a  Deputy 
Assistant  Inspector-General  of  Ordnance  whether 
he  knew  of  a  gardener  that  was  worth  anything. 

"  Most  of  them  are  mere  coolies,"  said  Colonel 
Innes,  "  and  I've  got  some  roses  in  this  little  place 
I've  taken  that  I  want  to  look  after." 

Next  day  Madeline  took  Brookes,  and  The 
Amazing  Marriage,  and  a  lunch-basket,  and  went 
out  to  Mashobra,  where  the  deodars  shadow  hardly 
any  scandal  at  all,  and  the  Snows  come,  with  per- 
ceptible confidence,  a  little  nearer. 

"  They  almost  step,"  she  said  to  Brookes,  look- 
ing at  them,  "  out  of  the  realm  of  the  imagina- 
tion." 

Brookes  said  that  they  did  indeed,  and  hoped 
that  she  hadn't  by  any  chance  forgotten  the  mus- 
tard. 

"  The  wind  is  keen  off  the  glaciers  over  there — 
anybody  would  think  of  a  condiment,"  Miss  An- 
derson rcmark'j  J  in  deprecation,  and  to  this  Brookes 
made  no  response.  It  was  a  liberty  she  often  felt 
compelled  to  take. 

The  Snows  appealed  to  Madeline   even  more 
248 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

than  did  Carintha,  Countess  of  Fleetwood,  to  whose 
fortunes  she  gave  long  pauses  while  she  looked 
across  their  summits  at  renunciation,  and  fancied 
her  spirit  made  strong  and  equal  to  its  task.  She 
was  glad  of  their  sanctuary;  she  did  not  know 
where  she  should  find  such  another.  Perhaps  the 
spectacle  was  more  than  ever  sublime  in  its  alterna- 
tive to  the  one  she  hud  come  away  to  postpone  the 
sight  of;  at  all  events  it  drove  the  reunion  of  tlic 
Inneses  from  her  mind  several  times  for  five  min- 
utes together,  during  which  she  thought  of  Horace 
by  himself,  and  went  over,  by  way  of  preparation 
for  her  departure,  all  that  had  come  and  gone  be- 
tween them.  There  had  been  luminous  moments, 
especially  as  they  irradiated  him,  and  she  dwelt  on 
these.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
preserve  in  London  or  in  New  York  a  careful  mem- 
ory of  them. 

So  the  lights  were  twinkling  all  up  and  down 
and  round  about  Simla  when  she  canterc  back  to 
it  and  it  was  late  when  she  started  for  tlir  VVors- 
leys,  where  she  was  dining.  One  little  lighted  house 
looked  much  like  another  perched  on  the  mountain- 
side, and  the  wooden  board  painted  "  Branksome 
Hall,  Maj.-Gen.  T.  P.  Worsley,  R.E.,"  nailed  to 
the  most  conspicuous  tree  from  the  main  road, 
was  invisible  in  the  darkness.  Madeline  arrived  in 
consequence  at  the  wrong  dinner-party,  and  was 
acclaimed  and  redirected  with  much  gaiety,  which 
849 


'fe^l 


#  .' 
*■ 


pi  = 

i 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

gave  her  a  further  agreeable  impression  of  the  in- 
souciance of  Simla,  but  made  her  later  still  at  the 
Worsleys.  So  that  half  the  people  were  already 
seated  when  she  at  last  appeared,  and  her  hostess 
had  just  time  to  cry,  "My  dear,  we  thought  the 
langurs  must  have  eaten  you!  Captain  Gordon, 
you  are  not  to  be  abandoned  after  al'.  You  know 
Miss  Anderson?"  when  she  found  herself  before 
her  soup. 

Captain  Gordon  heard  her  account  of  herself 
with  complacence,  and  declared,  wiping  his  mus- 
tache, that  a  similar  experience  had  befallen  him 
only  a  fortnight  before. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  that  absent- 
minded  chap.  Sir  James  Jackson,  who  went  to  the 
right  dinner-party  by  mistake?"  he  asked,  "and 
apologized  like  mad,  by  Jove!  and  insisted  he 
couldn't  stay.  The  people  nearly  had  to  tie  him 
down  in  his — "  Captain  Gordon  stopped,  arrest- 
ed by  his  companion's  sudden  and  complete  inat- 
tention. 

"  I  sec  a  lady,"  interrupted  Madeline,  with  odd 
distinctness,  "  curiously  like  somebody  I  have 
known  before."  Her  eyes  convinced  themselves, 
and  then  refused  to  be  convinced  of  the  incon- 
ceivable fact  that  they  were  resting  on  Violet 
Prendergast.  It  was  at  first  too  amazing,  too 
amazing  only.  Then  an  old  forgotten  feeling  rose 
in  her  bosom ;  the  hand  on  the  stem  of  her  wine- 
230 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

glass  grew  tense.  The  sensation  fell  away:  she 
remembered  her  emancipation,  the  years  arose  and 
reassured  her  during  which  Violet  Prendergast, 
living  or  dead,  had  been  to  her  of  absolutely  no  im- 
portance. Yet  there  was  a  little  aroused  tremor 
in  her  voice  as  she  went  on,  "  She  is  on  the  General's 
right— he  must  have  taken  lier  in.  Can  you  sec 
from  where  you  are  sitting?  " 

"  These  narrow  oval  tables  arc  a  nuisance  that 
way,  aren't  they?  You  don't  know  who  you're 
dining  with  till  the  end  of  the  function.  Oli!  1  see 
—that's  Mrs.  Innes,  just  out,  and  fresh  as  paint, 
isn't  she?  The  Colonel  "-Captain  Gordon  craned 
his  head  again—"  is  sitting  fourth  from  me  on 
this  side." 

"Mrs.  Innes!  Really !"  said  Madeline.  "Then 
— then  of  course  I  must  be  mistaken." 

She  removed  her  eyes  ahnost  stealthily  from 
the  other  woman's  face  and  fixed  them  on  the  pat- 
tern of  the  table-cloth.  Her  brain  guided  her 
clearly  through  the  tumult  of  her  perception,  and 
no  emotion  could  be  observed  in  the  smiling  at- 
tention which  she  gave  to  Captain  Gordon's  account 
of  the  afternoon's  tandem  racing;  but  there  was  a 
furious  beating  in  her  breast,  and  she  thought 
she  could  never  draw  a  breath  long  enough  to  con- 
trol it.  It  helped  her  that  there  was  food  to 
swallow,  wine  to  drink,  and  Captain  Gordon  to 
listen  to;  and  under  cover  of  these  things  she  grad- 
"  251 


^•:*.:'W 


THE  HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

ually,  consciously,  prepared  herself  for  the  shock 
of  encounter  which  should  be  conclusive.    Presently 
she  leaned  a  little  forward  and  let  her  glance,  in 
which  no  outsider  could  see  the  steady  recognition, 
rest  upon  the  lady  on  the  General's  right,  until  that 
person's   agreeable  blue  eyes  wandered  down   the 
table  and  met  it.    Perhaps  Madeline's  own  eyelids 
fluttered  a  little  as  she  saw  the  sudden  stricture  in 
the  face  that  received  her  message,  and  the  grimace 
with  which  it  uttered,  pallid  with  apprehension,  iU 
response   to   a  pleasantry   of   General   Worslcy's. 
She  was  not  consummate  in  her  self-control,  but 
she  was  able  at  all  events  to  send  the  glance  travel- 
ing prettily  on  with  u  little  casual  smile   for  an 
intervening  friend,  and  bring  it  back  to  her  dinner- 
roll  without  mischief.    It  did  not  adventure  again ; 
she  knew,  and  she  set  herself  to  hold  her  knowledge, 
to  look  at  it  and  understand  it,  while  the  mechanical 
part  of  her  made  up  its  mind  about  the  entrees, 
and  sympathized  with  Captain  Gordon  on  his  hard 
luck  in  having  three  ponies  laid  up  at  once.     She 
did  not  look  again,  although  she  felt  the  watching 
of  the  other  woman,  and  was  quite  aware  of  the 
moment  at  which  Mrs.   Inncs  allowed  herself  the 
reprieve  of  believing  that  at  the  Worsleys'  dinner- 
party  at  least  there  would  be  no  scandal.     The 
belief  had  its   reflex  action,  doing  something  to 
calm    her.      How    could    there    be— scandal— she 
asked  herself,  and  dismissed  with  relief  the  denun- 
252 


THE  HESITATION  OP  MISS  ANDERSON 

ciations  which  crowded  vague  but  insistent  in  her 

brnin.     Even  then  she  had  not  grasped  the  salient 

points  of  the  situation ;  she  was  too  much  occupied 

with  its  irony  as  it  affected  her  personally;  her 

impressions     circled     steadily     round     the     word 

"  twice  "  and  the  unimaginable  coincidence.     Her 

resentment  filled  her,  and  her  indignation  was  like 

a.  clear  flame  behind  her  smiling  face.     Robbed 

twice,  once  in  New  York  and— oh!  preposterous— 

the  second  time  in  Simla!    Robbed  of  the   same 

thing  by  the  same  hand !    She  perceived  in  the  shock 

of  it  only  a  monstrous  fatality,  a  ludicrously  wicked 

chance.    This  may  have  been  due  to  the  necessity  of 

hstening  to  Captain  Gordon. 

At  all  events  it  was  only  as  she  passed  Colonel 
Innes  on  her  way  to  the  drawing-room  and  saw 
ahead  of  her  the  very  modish  receding  back  of  .Mrs. 
Innes  that  she  realized  other  things— crime  and 
freedom. 

It  was  the  reversion  of  power;  it  brought  her 
a  g'  It  exultation.  She  sat  down  under  it  in  a 
corner,  hoping  to  be  left  alone,  with  a  wliite  face 
and  shining  eyes.  Power  and  opportunity  and 
purpose — righteous  purpose ! 

The  circumstances  had  come  to  her  in  a  flash; 
she  brought  tliem  up  again  steadily  and  scrutinized 
them.  The  case  was  absolutely  clear.  Frank  Pren- 
dergast  had  been  dead  just  seven  months.  Colonel 
Innes  imagined  himself  married  four  years. 
253 


i^  ;»■'>-  *w  1/ 


W  ■  (i 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

Violet  rrendcrgpst  wa.  a  bigamUt,  and  Horace 
Inncs  had  no  wife. 

That  was  the  marvelous  transcendent  fact; 
that  was  what  lifted  her  and  carried  her  on  great 
pulsing  waves  that  rolled  beyond  the  walls  of  the 
little  fripperied  drawing-room  and  its  collection  of 
low-necked  women,  out  into  her  life,  which  had  not 
these  boundaries.  She  lived  again  in  a  possible 
world.     There  was  no  stone  wall  between  herself 

and  joy.  „      , ,  a 

The  old  Mussulman  butler  who  offered  her  coffee 
looked  at  her  with  aroused  curiosity— here  was  cer- 
tainly a  memsahib  under  the  favor  of  God-and  as 
she  stirred  it,  the  shadow  that  Violet  Prendergast 
had  thrown  upon  her  life  faded  out  of  her  mind  in 
the  light  that  was  there.    Then  she  looked  up  and 
met  that  lady's  vivid  blue  eyes.     Mis.  Innes's  color 
had  not  returned,  but  there  was  a  recklessness  in 
the  lines  of  her  mouth,  in  the  way  she  held  her  chm, 
expressing  that   she   had  been   reflecting  on   old 
scores,  and  anticipated  the  worst.     Meeting  this 
vigilance  Miss  Anderson  experienced  a  slight  re- 
coil      Her    happiness,    she    realized,    had    been 
brought  to  her  in  the  hands  of  ugly  circumstance. 
"  And  so  melodramatic,"  she  told  herself.    "  It 
is  reallv  almost  vulgar.    In  a  story  I  should  have  no 
patience  with  it."     But  she  went  on  stirring  her 
coffee  with  a  little  uncontrollable  smile. 

A  moment  later  she  had  to  contemplate  the 
254 


M  .i^-  svr-' r.moLmm. 


i 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

circumstance  that  her  hostess  wos  adclnssinf;  her. 
Mrs.  Innos  wished  to  be  introduced.  Jlrs.  Innes, 
iiicnrnttte,  con.sciuus  sensation,  was  cniiling  at  lier, 
saying  that  she  must  know  so  jfreat  a  friend  of  lier 
husband's.  He  made  so  few  friends,  and  she  was 
so  grateful  to  anybody  who  was  good  to  him.  Kves 
and  voice  tolerably  in  rein,  aware  of  the  situation 
at  every  point,  she  had  a  meretricious  daring;  and 
it  occurred  to  Madeline,  looking  at  her,  that  siic 
was  after  all  a  fairly  competent  second-class  ad- 
venturess. She  would  not  refuse  the  cue.  It  would 
moke  so  little  difference. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  tremendously  indebted 
to  Colonel  Innes.  He  has  been  so  very  kind  about 
ponies  and  jlmmpanies  and  things.  Simla  is  full 
of  pitfalls  for  a  stranger,  don't  you  think?  "  And 
Miss  Anderson,  unclosing  her  fun,  turned  her  re- 
poseful head  a  little  in  the  direction  of  three 
married  schoolgirls  voluble  on  her  left. 

"  Not  when  you  get  to  know  the  language.  You 
must  learn  the  language;  it's  indispensable.  Hut 
of  course  it  depends  on  how  long  you  mean  to 
stay." 

"I  think  I  will  learn  th^  anguage,"  said 
Madeline. 

"  But  General  Worslcy  told  me  you  were  leav- 
ing Simla  in  a  fortnight." 

"Oh  no.     My  plans  arc  very  indefinite;  but  I 
shall  stay  much  longer  than  that." 
255 


W.J^I     BV 


,»..)  * ' 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 


lit; 


"  It  IP  Mi«s  Anderson,  isn't  it? — Miss  Madeline 
Anderson,  of  Now  York— no,  Brooklyn?" 

Madeline  looked  iit  lier.  "  Did  not  the  General 
say  so  ?  "  she  .  <ked. 

"  Yes,  he  did.  But  one  likes  to  nmkc  quite 
sure." 

"  I  can  understand  that." 

Mrs.  Iniies  leaned  forward  with  one  elbow  on 
her  knee. 

It  was  not  a  graceful  attitude,  but  it  gave  the 
casual  air  to  the  conversation  which  was  deiiirable. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  "  she  said. 

"  My  plans  are  as  indefinite  as  possible,  really," 
Madeline  returned,  "  I  may  spend  the  cold  weather 
in  Calcutta,  or  go  into  camp  with  the  Dovedells — 
I  should  like  that." 

"  Mrs.  Innes,"  cried  the  nearest  schoolgirl,  "  we 
are  coming  to-morrow  to  sec  all  the  lovely  things 
in  your  boxes,  may  wc  ?  " 

"  Do,  duckies.  But  mind,  no  copying  of  them 
by  durzies  in  the  veranda.  They're  all  Paris 
things — Coulter's — and  you  know  he  doesn't  copy 
well,  docs  he?  Oh,  dear!  here  are  the  men — they 
always  come  too  soon,  don't  they?  So  glad  to  have 
had  even  a  little  chat.  Miss  Anderson.  I'll  come 
and  see  you  to-morrow.  You  know  newcomers  in 
India  always  make  the  first  calls.  I  shall  find  you 
at  home,  sha'n'tl?" 

"  By  all  means,"  Madeline  said. 
256 


.^'"^  71^^^ 


Tin:   HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

Mrs.  Inncs  crossed  the  room,  cryinif  out  that 
the  heat  was  perfectljr  absurd  for  Simla,  it  must  be 
cooler  outsi.lc;  ond  as  Captoin  Valentine  Drnkc 
folloHed  i.  ,  ..,'0  the  scmi-durkmss  of  the  vernn- 
du,  the  llir>-  i,,.ii-..a  hdioolgirU  looked  at  each 
other  I    <!  s  nil.il 

'■  "or't  h-  nn.ifj.ty,'  ,ai,l  Captain  Gordon, 
Icani.i;?  u-i-  tl,  ■  m>im  tr.n  behind.  "  They're  very 
de.r  frien.js,  and  tiievV  been  separated  for  two 
years." 

Madclini'  !•  arci  tl.is  ;is  plainly  as  they  did.  She 
noted  disd  lj;.Iii11v  how  il  all  fell  in. 

"  How  absent  you  are  to-night !  "  Horace  '  1,  .s 
exclaimed,  when  Miss  Anderson  had  ask'.d  l.ii,  a 
trivial  question  for  the  third  time. 

"Hush!"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Scalle.a  is  >.,„r- 
to  sing";  and  as  Mrs.  Scallejm  sang  >lif  h;  t,,V 
eyes  play  over  him  wi  n  a  light  in  then  ^„  t,  ,1  .  ,-, 
that  once  catching  it  he  felt  a  sudden  aji  ;w,:r.,i.4 
throb,  and  looked  again ;  but  after  that  her  wi, 
were  on  the  floor. 

"  We  are  staying  here,"  he  said,  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  later,  as  he  saw  her  into  her  rickshaw ;  "  and 
I  think  I  must  see  you  to  your  quarters.  It's  very 
dark,  and  there  is  an  ugly  little  slip  half-way  be- 
tween this  and  the  '»Iall." 

He  ran  up-stairs  to  get  his  coat  and  stick,  and 
a  white  face  like  an  apparition  suddenly  hung  it- 
self on  the  edge  :.f  Madeline's  rickshaw-hood. 
257 


THE  HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDERSON 

"  Don't  tell  him  to-night,"  it  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Am  you  ready,  Colonel  Innes  ?  Then  good 
night,  everybody,"  cried  Madeline. 

She  was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  would  not  tell 
Horace  Inncs  "  to-night." 


S5S 


,.*• 


CHAPTER    V 

"My  wife,"  said  Colonel  Inncs,  "is  looking 
extreir.ely  well." 

"  She  seems  so,  indeed,"  Madeline  replied. 
"  She  is  delighted  with  '  Two  Gables.'    Likes  it 
better,  she  says,  than  any  other  house  we  could 
have  got." 

"  What  a  good  thing !  " 

"It  was  a  record  trip  for  the  Caledonia, 
thirteen  days  from  Brindisi  to  Bombay.  Was  slie 
telling  you  about  the  voyage?  " 

"  No,"  said  Madeline,  impatiently,  "  she  didn't 
mention  it.  How  shr.ll  I  tell  the  men  to  put  down 
the  hood,  please.'  A  rickshaw  is  detestable  with  the 
hood  up— stifling!  Thanks.  I  beg  your  pardon. 
The  Caledonia  made  a  good  run.'  " 

"Thirteen  days.  Wonderful  weather,  of 
course,  which  was  luck  for  Violet.  Slie  is  an 
atrocious  sailor." 

Madeline  fancied  she  heard  repose  and  reas- 
surance in  his  voice.  Her  thought  cried,  "  It  is  not 
so  bad  as  he  expected !  "  We  can  not  be  surprised 
that  she  failed  to  see  in  herself  the  alleviation  of 
that  first  evening. 

259 


THE   HESITATION  OF   MISS  ANDERSON 


W' 


"  She  has  brought  quantities  of  tilings  for  the 
house  with  her,"  Innes  went  on,  "  as  well  as  three 
dachshund  puppies,"  and  he  lauglied.  "  Wouldn't 
you  like  one?  What  can  we  do  with  three — and 
the  terrier,  and  Brutus?  " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  no." 

How  could  he  laugh?  How  could  he  speak 
pleasantly  of  these  intimate  details  of  his  bondage  ? 
How  could  he  conceive  that  she  would  accept 

"  Already  she  has  arranged  four  dinner- 
parties !  It  will  be  a  relief  not  to  have  to  think  of 
that  sort  of  thing — to  be  able  to  leave  it  to  her." 

"  Mrs.  Innes  must  have  great  energy.  To 
drive  all  the  way  up  from  Kalka  by  noon  and  ap- 
pear at  a  dinner-party  at  night — wonderful !  " 

"  Oh,  great  energy,"  Horace  said. 

"  She  will  take  you  everywhere — to  all  tli* 
functions.    She  will  insist  on  your  duty  to  society." 

Madeline  felt  that  she  must  get  him  sonrvehiyw' 
back  into  his  slough  of  despond.  His  freedooi 
paralyzed  her.  And  he  returned  with  a  pathetic 
change  of  tone. 

"  I  suppose  thcrt  is  no  alternative.  Violet  is 
very  good  about  being  willing  to  go  alon<',  or  witli 
somebody  else ;  but  I  never  think  it  quite  fair  on 
one's  wife  to  impose  un  her  the  necessity  of  going 
about  with  other  men." 

"  Mrs.  Worsley  introduced  us  after  dinner," 
said  Madehnc. 


i 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

She  kept  disparagement  out  of  licr  mind,  but 
lie  could  not  help  perceiving  aloofness. 

"Yes?" 

The  monosyllabic  told  her  sensitive  ear  that 
while  he  admitted  her  consideration  in  going  on 
with  the  subject,  he  was  willing  to  recognize  that 
there  was  no  more  to  say,  and  have  done  with  it. 
She  gathered  up  her  scruples  and  repugnances  in  a 
firm  grasp.  She  would  not  let  him  throw  his  own 
shadow,  as  an  effectual  obstacle,  between  himself 
and  hberty. 

^^  "I  am  going  to  ask  you  something,"  she  said; 
"it  might  come  naturally  enough  from  another 
man  with  whom  your  friendship  was  us  candid  as 
it  is  with  me:  but  there  is  an  awkwardness  in  it  from 
«  woman.  You  must  believe  I  have  a  good  reason. 
W^ill  you  tell  m<  about  your  first  meeting  with  Mrs. 
Inr(*»,  when — wlion  you  became  engaged?" 

She  knew  sli*  was  daring  a  good  deal;  but 
when  a  man's  prison  is  to  be  brougi-t  down  about 
his  *ars,  one  might  w*  well  begin,  she  thought,  at 
the  f'yufwjtttion. 

For  ,,  ,n«nent  Irmcs  did  not  speak,  and  then 
liis  words  came  slowly. 

"  I  find  it  difficult,"  he  said,  "  to  answer  you. 
How  can  it  matter— it  is  impossible.  I  suppose 
you  have  heard  some  story,  and  it  is  like  you  to 
want  to  be  in  a  jjosition  to  negative  it.  Ignore  it 
instead.  She  has  very  successfully  championed 
201 


.  (.,  ■■ 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

herself.  Beliere  nothing  to  her  disadvantage  that 
muy  be  said  about  tli*t— that  time.  I  was  pleased 
to  marry  her,  and  -lie  was  pleased  to  marry  me. 
But  for  God's  sake  don't  let  us  talk  about  it!  " 

As  he  spoke  Madeline  saw  the  vivid  tUarness 
of  the  situation  grow  blurred  and  lonfused.  It  was 
as  if  lier  point  of  view  had  suddLnK  diunged  and 
her  eyes  failed  her.  Her  eager  impulse  had  beat 
less  and  less  strongly  from  the  VVorsleys'  door; 
now  it  seemed  to  shrink  away  in  fetters.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  vaguely  resentful  tears,  which  sprang, 
if  she  oould  have  traced  them,  from  the  fact  that 
the  man  she  loved  was  loyal  to  his  own  mistake,  and 
the  formless  premonition  that  he  might  continue 
to  be.  She  contorted  her  lip  to  keep  her  emotion 
back,  and  deliberately  turned  away  from  a  matter 
in  which  she  was  not  mistress,  and  which  contained 
ugly  possibilities  of  buffeting.  She  would  wait  a 
little ;  and  though  consideration  for  Violet  Prender- 
gast  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  she  would  not  tell 
him  to-night. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said ;  and,  after  a  moment, 
"  Did  I  tell  you  that  I  have  changed  my  plans?  " 

"  You  are  not  going  so  soon?  "  She  took  all 
the  comfort  there  was  in  his  eagerness. 

"  I  am  not  going  at  all  for  the  present.  I  have 
abandoned  my  intentions  and  my  dates.  I  mean  to 
drift  for  a  little  while.  I  have  been  too — too  con- 
scientious," 


THK   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

"  Arc  you  quite  serious — do  you  mean  it?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do." 

"  And  in  less  than  a  fortnight  you  will  not  go 
out  of  one's  life.  You  will  stay  on — you  summer 
day  I  It's  hard  to  believe  in  luck  like  that.  I  sent 
a  poor  devil  of  a  sepoy  a  reprieve  last  week — one 
knoHs  now  how  lie  i mst  hav  ■  felt  about  it." 

"Does  it  make  all  that  diff, ?"  Madeline 

usked,  softlv. 

'■  It  makes  a  differemo,"  he  answered,  control- 
ling iiis  words,  "  that  I  am  glad  you  can  not  con- 
ceive, since  that  would  mean  that  your  life  has 
been  as  barren  as  mine."  He  seemed  to  refrain 
from  saying  more,  and  then  he  added,  "  You  must 
be  careful  when  you  plant  your  friendship  that 
you  mean  it  to  stay,  and  blossom.  It  will  not  come 
easily  up  by  the  roots,  and  it  will  leave  an  ugly 
hole." 

He  was  helping  her  out  of  her  rickshaw,  and  as 
they  followed  the  servant  "l.o  carried  her  wraps  tl»t 
few  yards  to  the  door,  she  left  her  hand  lightly  on 
his  arm.  It  was  the  seal,  he  thought,  of  her  un- 
written bond  tiiat  there  should  bi  no  uprooting 
of  the  single  flower  hi  cherished  :  and  he  went  back 
almost  buoyantly  because  of  it  to  tiif  woman  who 
hail  been  sitting  in  the  sackcloth  and  ashes  of  mis- 
fortune, turning  over  the  expedients  for  which  his 
step  might  make  occasion. 

By  the  time  the  monkeys  began   to   scramble 


i 


n 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

nhotit  the  roof  in  the  early  creeping  of  the  dawn 
among  the  deodars,  Madeline  had  groped  her  way 
to  a  tolerably  cloar  conception  of  what  might  hap- 
pen. The  impeding  circumstance  everywhere,  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  was  Frederick  Prender- 
gast's  coiSn.  The  case,  had  convict  No.  1596  been 
still  alive  and  working  out  his  debt  to  society, 
would  have  been  transcendentally  simple,  she  told 
herself.  Even  a  convict  has  a  right — a  prospective 
right — to  his  wife,  and  no  honest  man  should  be 
compelled  to  retain  a  criminal's  property.  This 
wa.s  an  odd  reflection,  perhaps,  to  be  made  by 
Madeline  Anderson,  but  the  situation  as  a  whole 
might  be  described  as  curious.  And  there  was  no 
doubt  about  the  coffin. 


k#l 


S64 


CHAPTER    VI 

The  veranda  of  which  Miss  Anderson's  little 
sitting-room  claimed  its  section  hung  over  the  road 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  the  sound  of 
Mrs.  Innes's  arrival  about  ten  minutes  after  break- 
fast. 

On  the  contrary,  she  had  spent  two  whole  hours 
contemplating,  with  very  fixed  attention,  first  the 
domestic  circumstances   of  Colonel  Horace  Innes 
and  their  possible  development,  and  then,  with  a 
pang  of  profoundest  acknowledgment,  the  moral 
qualities  which  he  would  bring  to  bear  upon  them, 
hhe  was  further  from  knowing  what  course  she 
personally  intended  to  pursue  than  ever,  when  she 
heard  the  wheels  roll  up  underneath;  and  she  had 
worked  herself  into  a  state  of  sufficient  detachment 
from  the  whole  problem  to  reflect  upon  the  ab- 
surdity of  a  bigamist  rattling  forth  to  discuss  her 
probable  ruin  in  the  fanciful  gaiety  of  a  rickshaw. 
Ihe  circumstance  had  its  value  though;  it  lightened 
all    responsibility    for   the    lady    concerned.      As 
Madeline  heard  her  jump  out  and  give  pronounced 
orders  for  the  securing  of  an  accompanying  dachs- 
hund. It  did  not  seem  to  matter  so  particularly  what 
became  of  Violet  Prendergast. 
263 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

Mrs.  Inncs's  footsteps  came  briskly  along  the 
veranda.  Madeline  noted  that  there  was  no  lag- 
ging. "  Number  seven,"  she  said  aloud ;  as  she 
pnssed  other  doors,  "  Number  eight — number  nine ! 
Ah !  there  you  are."  The  door  was  open.  "  I 
wouldn't  let  them  bring  up  my  card  for  fear  of 
some  mistake.  How  do  you  do?  Now  please  don't 
get  up — you  look  so  comfortable  with  your 
book.  What  is  it.'  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  that.  Peo- 
ple were  talking  about  it  a  good  deal  when 
I  left  London,  but  I  haven't  read  it.  Is  it 
good?  " 

"  I  like  it,"  said  Madeline.  She  half  rose  as 
Mrs.  Innes  entered ;  but  as  the  lady  did  not  seem  to 
miss  the  ceremony  of  greeting,  she  was  glad  to  sink 
back  in  her  chair. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  Simla  ?  Charming  in 
many  ways,  isn't  it?  A  little  too  flippant,  I  always 
say — rather  too  much  champagne  and  silliness. 
But  awfully  bracing." 

"  The  Snows  are  magnificent,"  Madeline  said, 
"  when  you  can  stc  them.  And  there's  a  lot  of 
good  work  done  here." 

"Aren't  they  divine?  I  did  nothing,  ab- 
solutely notiiing,  my  first  season  but  paint  them. 
And  the  shops — they're  not  bad,  are  they,  for  the 
size  of  the  place?  Though  to-day,  upon  my  soul, 
there  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  yard  of  white  spotted 
vc  ling  among  them." 

266 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

"  That  i,  annoying,"  ,.id  Madeline,  "  if  you 
want  spotted  veiling."  ^ 

"  Isn't  it?     Well  "-Mr,.   Inne,   took  a  deep 

breath-"  you  didn't  tell  him  last  night  ?  » 

;|  N-no,"  said  Madeline,  with  deliberation 

I  wa,  grateful.     I  knew  I  could  rely  upon 

you  no    to.     It  would  have  been  too  cruel  when  we 

had  only  just  been  reunited-dear  Horace  would 

have  had  to  sleep  in  the " 

"  Pray » 

"  Well  Horace  is  the  soul  of  honor.  Is  your 
a^-ah  ,n  there?"  Mrs.  Innes  nodded  toward  the 
bedroom  door.  «  You  can  not  imagine  what  long 
ears  she  has."  ** 

"I  have  no  ayah.     There  is  only   Brookes"; 

and  as     hat  excellent  woman  passed  through  the 

room  w,th  a  towel  over  hn.   a™,  Madeline   said, 

Vou  can  go  now,  Brookes,  and  see  about  that 

alpaca.    Take  the  rickshaw ,  it  looks  very  threa": 

"  Maid !   You  are  a  swell !  There  are  only  four 
genu.ne  „,a,ds  ,„  Sin.la  that  I  know  of-tl^.  rest 
arc  really  nurse-girls      Wli.it  „  „      e    ,.    , 
1,..|     T'j     1  *^ "at  a  comfort  she  must 

h  .     The  luxury  ot  all  others  that  I  long  for;  but, 
a^ !  anny  p„y,  ^„„  know.    I  did  once  bring  a  dear 
h.ng  out  w,th  me  from  Nic^you  sho^d  have 
seen  Horace's  face." 

woui7h"'"''^"''  r""^  ""'"^^  ^°  ''''°"*  i"'*'^  ''J™^;  it 

would  be  uncomfortable." 
'*  267 


li 


m 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

"  Except  that  you  American!  arc  so  perfectly 
independent." 

"  On  the  contrary.     If  I  could  order  about  i\ 

servant  the  way  an  Englishwoman  does " 

"  Say  you  are  not  going  to  tell  him !  I've  got 
such  a  lot  of  other  calls  to  make,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Inncs.  "  Dear  Lady  Bloomficld  won't  understand 
it  if  I  don't  call  tii-day,  ispcciully  after  the  hahy. 
VVIirtt  ptoplc  in  that  position  want  with  more 
biihies  I  can  not  comprehend.  Of  course  you 
haven't  noticed  it,  hut  a  baby  is  such  a  shock  to 

Simla." 

"  Don't  let  me  keep  you,"  Madeline  said,  ris- 
ing. 

"  But  you  haven't  promised.  Do  promise,  Miss 
Anderson.  You  gain  nothing  by  telling  him,  ex- 
cept your  revenge;  and  I  should  think  by  this 
time  you  would  have  forgiven  me  for  taking 
Frederick  away  from  you.  He  didn't  turn  out  so 
well !  You  can't  still  bear  me  malice  over  that  con- 
vict in  Sing  Sing." 

"  For  his  sake,  poor  fellow,  I  might." 
"  Coming  along  I  said  to  myself,  '  She  can 
score  off  me  badly,  but  surely  she  doesn't  want  to  so 
much  as  all  that.'  Besides,  I  really  only  took  your 
leavings,  you  know.  You  threw  poor  Fred  Prcn- 
dcrgast  over." 

"  I  am  not  prepared  to  discuss  that,"  Madeline 
said,  at  no  pains  to  smooth  the  curve  out  of  her 
lip. 


-1^g»._ 


THE   HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

"Then  I  thoughf.  '  PorI,„p,-j.„u  never  can 

.ell^«..l,pcop,c^,he  will  think  in.er.«/^  to  .akc 

"  Tliat  is  a  possible  point  of  view." 

"I   know.      You    think    I'm   an  'impostor   on 

on    '  M    .  "'"-""  '"  *"  "P"'*^'^'  »"'''  -PPo» 

>ou  hkcd     Dut  3,„„  „„  «  friend  of  n.y  ha,b„nd'.,, 

M.S       nderson.      You   woul.l    n.,t   tu.n   his   whole 

niarmd  h»e  ,„t.,  «  scandal  and  ruin  his  o.recr?  " 

Huin  his  career?  " 

"Of  course.     Governn.ent  is  awfully  partlcu- 

s  l.kely  to  Ret  any  b.g  position  with  „  cloud  over 
...s  J^est,e     a«.irs.        Horaee     would     resign. 

self  "h?f  T'^"!'^  '""''•"  ^'"-  ^""^^  '"'''^'1  '"  h^--- 
^o\{  but  she  d,d  not  give  Madeline  this  alternative 

A  line  or  two  of  nervous  irritation  marked  them- 
selves about  her  eyes,  an.l  her  color  had  Caded.  Her 
^a  was  less  becominff  than  it  had  been,  and  she  had 
pulled  a  button  off  her  glove. 

"  ^''['^f  ^'"^  '^•^'•t  ™  T'ickly,  «  it  isn't  as  if 
>ou  eould  do  any  good,  you  know.  The  harm  was 
done  once  for  all  when  I  let  him  think  he'd  married 
n'c.  I  thought  then-well,  I  had  to  take  it  or  leave 
.t-and  every  week  I  expected  to  hear  of  Fred- 
enek.  death.  Then  I  meant  to  tell  Horace  myself, 
and  have  the  eeren.ony  over  again.  He  couhln't 
2C9 


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MICROCOPY   DESOIUTION    TEST   CHART 

lANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2| 


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^     >1PPLIED  IIVMGE     In 


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mi 


THE  HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDERSON 

refuse.  And  all  these  years  it's  been  like  living  on 
a  volcano,  in  the  fear  of  meeting  New  York  people. 
Out  here  there  never  arc  any,  but  in  England  I  dye 
my  hair,  and  alter  my  complexion." 

"  Why  did  you  change  your  mind,"  Madeline 
asked,  "about  telling  Colonel  Innesf  " 

"  I  haven't!  Why  should  I  change  my  mind? 
For  my  own  protection,  I  mean  to  get  things  put 
straight  instantly— when  the  time  comes." 

"  When  the  times,"  Madeline  repeated  ;  and  her 
eyes,  as  she  fixed  them  on  Mrs.  Inncs,  were  suddenly 
so  lightened  with  a  new  idea  that  she  dropped  the 
lids  over  them  as  she  waited  for  the  answer. 

"  When  poor  Frederick  does  pass  away,"  Mrs. 
Innes  said,  with  an  air  of  observing  the  proprieties. 
"  When  they  put  him  in  prison  it  was  a  matter  of 
months,  the  doctors  said.  That  was  one  reason  why 
I  went  abroad.  I  couldn't  bear  to  stay  there  and 
see  him  dying  by  inches,  poor  fellow." 
"Couldn't  you.'" 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't.  And  the  idea  of  the  hard 
labor  made  me  sick.  But  it  seems  to  have  improved 
his  health,  and  now— there  is  no  telling !  I  some- 
times believe  he  will  live  out  his  sentence.  Should 
you  think  that  possible  in  the  case  of  a  man  with 
half  a  lung?" 

"  I  have  no  knowledge  of  pulmonary  disease," 
Madeline  said.    She  forced  the  words  from  her  lips 
and  carefully  looked  away,  taking  this  second  key 
270 


THE   HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDEKSOX 

to  the  situation  mcclianically,  and  for  a  nionicnt 
groping  with  it. 

"  Wliat  arrangement  did  you  make  to  be  in- 
formed about— about  him?"  she  asked,  and  in- 
stantly regretted  having  gone  so  perilously  near 
provoking  a  direct  question. 

"  I  subscribe  to  the  New  York  World.  I  used 
to  see  lots  of  things  in  it— about  the  shock  the  news 

of  my  deatli  gave  him " 

A  flash  of  hysterical  anmsement  shot  into  Airs. 
Innes's  eyes,  and  she  questioned  IMadeline's  face  to 
see  wliether  it  responded  to  her  humor.  Then  she 
put  her  own  features  straight  behind  her  hand- 
kerchief and  went  on. 

"  And  about  his  failing  health,  and  then  about 
Ins  being  so  much  better.  But  nothing  now  for 
ages." 

"  Did  the  World  tell  you,"  aske.l  Hiss  Ander- 
son, with  sudden  interest,  "  that  .Mr.  Prendergast 
came  into  a  considerable  fortune  before— about 
two  years  ago.'  " 

Mrs.  Innes's  face  turned  suddenly  blank. 
"  How  much.?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"About  five  hundred  thousand  dollars,  I  be- 
h-eve.  Left  liim  by  a  cousin.  Then  you  didn't 
know ?  " 

"  That  must  have  been  Gordon  Prendergast— 
the  engineer!"   Mrs.  Innes  said,  with  excitement. 
t  ancy  that !    Leaving  money  to  a  relation  in  Sing 
271 


zn^wm 


THE   HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDERSON' 


t 


Sing!  Hadn't  iiUered  liis  will,  I  suppose.  Who 
could  possiblj-,"  iind  her  face  fell  visibly,  "  have 
forcsLcn  sudi  a  thing?" 

"  No  one,  I  think,"  said  Madeline,  through  a 
little  edged  smile.  *'  On  that  point  you  will  hardly 
be  criticized." 

Mrs.  Inncs,  with  clasped  hands,  was  sunk  in 
thought.  She  raised  her  eyes  with  a  conviction  in 
them  which  she  evidentlj'  felt  to  be  pathetic. 

"  After  all,"  she  said,  "  there  is  something  in 
what  the  padres  say  about  our  rea])ing  the  reward 
of  our  misdeeds  in  this  world — some  of  us,  anyway. 
If  I  had  stayed  in  New  York " 

"Yes?"  said  Madeline.  "I  shall  wake  up 
presently,"  she  reflected,  "  and  find  that  I  have 
been  dreaming  melodrama."  But  that  was  a  fan- 
tastic underscoring  of  her  experience.  She  knew 
very  well  she  was  making  it. 

Mrs.  Innes,  again  wrapped  in  astonished  con- 
templation, did  not  reply.  Then  she  juniped  to  her 
feet  with  a  gesture  that  cast  fortunes  back  into  the 
lap  of  fate. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  she  said ;  "  I  can't  do 
anything  note,  can  I  ?  " 

Madeline  laid  hold  of  silence  and  made  armor 
with  it.    At  all  events,  she  must  have  time  to  think. 

"  I  decline  to  advise  you,"  she  said,  and  she 
spoke  with  a  barely  perceptible  movement  of  her 
lips  only.    The  rest  of  her  face  was  stone. 
272 


TIIK   HESITATION   OF  MISS  AXDEUSOX 

"  How  unkind  anil  unfor^Ivinf;  you  are!  Most 
j>eoplc  would  tl.ink  tlie  loss  of  u  hundred  tliousand 
Jiounds  about  i)unislnncnt  enough  for  what  I  have 
<ioni'.  You  doM'f  swni  to  see  it.  But  on  toj,  of  that 
J'ou  won't  refuse  to  promise  not  to  til!  Horace?  " 

"  I  will  not  hind  myself  in  any  way  whatever." 

"  Not  even  when  you  know  that  tlie  moment  I 
hear  of  the— death  I  intend  to— to " 

"  JIake  un  honest  man  of  him.'  Not  even  when 
I  know  that." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  down  on  my  knees  to 
you.'" 

Madeline  glanced  at  the  flovvered  fabric  in- 
volved and  said,  "  I  wouldn't,  I  think." 

"  And  this  is  to  hang  over  me  the  whole  sea- 
son.' I  shall  enjoy  nothing— absolutely  nothing." 
The  blue  eyes  were  suddenly  cclijjsed  by  a  y 
tears,  which  the  advent  of  a  servant  with  c„rds 
checked  as  suddenly. 

"  Good-by,  then,  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Innes,  as  if 
in  response  to  the  advancing  rustle  of  skirts  in  the 
verand  •  So  glad  to  have  found  you  at  home. 

Dear  me,     ds  Trilby  made  her  way  up— and  I  g.ive 
such  particular  orders !    Oh,  you  naughty  dog !  " 


273 


_    fl«'     Til. 


CHAPTER    VII 


w 


From  the  complication  tlint  surged  round  Miss 
Anderson's  waking  hours  one  point  emerged,  and 
gave  her  a  perch  for  congratulation.  That  was 
the  determination  she  had  shown  in  refusing  to  let 
Frederick  Prendergast  leave  her  his  money,  or  any 
part  of  it. 

It  has  been  said  that  he  had  outlived  her  tender- 
ness, if  not  her  care,  and  this  fact,  which  she  never 
found  it  necessary  to  communicate  to  poor  Fred- 
eiick  himself,  naturally  made  his  desire  in  the 
matter  sharply  distasteful.  She  was  even  unawa.-e 
of  the  disposition  he  had  made  of  his  ironical 
fortune,  a  reflection  which  brought  her  thankful- 
ness that  there  was  something  she  did  not  know. 
"  If  I  had  let  him  do  it,"  she  thought,  "I  should 
have  felt  compelled  to  tell  her  everything,  in- 
tantly.  And  think  of  discussing  it  with  her!" 
Ihis  was  quite  a  fortnight  later,  and  Mrs.  Innes 
still  occupied  her  remarkable  position  only  in  her 
own  mind  and  Madeline's,  still  knowing  herself  the 
wife  of  1596  and  of  1596  only,  and  still  unaware 
that  1396  was  in  his  grave.  Simla  had  gone  on 
274i 


"■*  ^'ih  v«t 


THE   HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSOV 
with  its  dance,  and  dinner.,  and  gynikhanas  quite 

accenting  ,t,  exchanging  light  „.„rds  only  as  oc- 
casion demanded,  but  they  were  not  rJ  , 
for  Mr.    n         •■              -^  ""^™  ""t  elevur  enouffi 
lor  Mrs.  Gammidge  and  Airs    Af.Vl-;        i 

iine  Anderson  was  as  ri.liculous  «,  it  u,     •         ,• 
cable      «n-i  ,^"'""''  '">  It  Has  inexT)  I- 

women  are  not  understood  in  Simla   I'd  1       .  "', 
told  what  is  understood."  '         '''"-'  *°  "^"^ 

Between  them  they  gave  Madeline  a  noble  sup- 

275 


THE   HESITATION'   OF   JIISS  ANDERSON 

at  work  that  in  the  ltkI  slio  would  iiiild;  in  tlio  tiid 
she  would  go  nway,  at  least  iis  far  as  Honibay  or 
Calcutta,  and  (Voin  tliirc  send  to  Mrs.  Innis  the 
news  of  her  liheration.  It  would  not  lie  neiissiirv, 
alter  all,  or  even  exeus,il)le,  to  tell  Horace.  Ilis 
wife  would  do  that  quickly  enough — at  least,  she 
had  said  she  would.  If  she  didn't — well,  if  she 
didn't,  nothing  would  be  possible  but  another  letter, 
giviiig  him  the  simple  facts,  she,  Madeline,  care- 
fully out  of  the  way  of  his  path  of  duty — at  all 
events,  at  Calcutta  or  IJonibay.  But  there  was  no 
danger  that  Mrs.  Inncs  would  lose  the  advantage 
of  confession,  of  throwing  herself  on  his  generosity 
— and  at  this  point  Madeline  usually  felt  her  de- 
fenses against  her  better  nature  considerably 
strengthened,  and  the  date  of  her  sacrifice  grow 
vague  again. 

Meanwhile,  she  was  astonished  to  observe  that, 
in  spite  of  her  threat  to  the  contrary,  Mrs.  Innes 
appeared  to  be  enjoying  herself  particularly  well. 
JIadeline  had  frequent  occasion  for  private  com- 
ment on  the  advantages  of  a  temperament  tliat 
could  find  satisfaction  in  dancing  through  whole 
programs  at  the  very  door,  so  to  speak,  of  the 
criminal  courts ;  and  it  can  not  be  denied  that  this 
capacity  of  Mrs.  Innes's  went  far  to  increase  the 
vacillation  with  which  Miss  Anderson  considered 
her  duty  toward  that  lady.  If  she  had  shown  traces 
of  a  single  hour  of  genuine  suifering,  there  would 
276 


THE   IIESITATIOX   (,K   MISS  A.NDEKSO.V 
Imve  Leon  an  cn,l  to  Ma.Klinc'.s  hesitation.    «„t  be- 
J<.'..l   an  o<.ca.si..nal   watchful  glance   at   cnversa- 
t-ns  ,n  Hlnel,  she  nn'^ht  he  ««.,„•!„«  .Ira„,utieallv 
"•"'  "I'on  whieh  she  instantlv   t„n,e,l   h.,-  haek  i,, 
soon  as  she  was  perceive,!,  Mrs.  I,,,,.,  ^...e  no  si.,,. 
even  of  preoccupation.     If  she  ha.l  l,a.l  half-ho,.;, 
thoy   occurrea   hetween   the  teas  an,l   tennises,    the 
p.cnics,  nd.ng-parties,  luncheons,  and  other  enter- 
.umnents,  at  which  vou  could  alwavs  count  upon 

cjn«  her;  and  ,n  that  case  the,  n,ust  have  iL, 

K   t.     hie  looked  extren,elv  well,  an.l  her  a.ln.i- 

rahlo  frocks  (,ave  an  accent  even  to  "  Uirthdav  " 

func  ,ons   at    Viceregal    Lodge,    which    were   c.uite 

Klled  a  revelatmn  of  her  nn'nd,  I  think  it  would 
have  transp,red  that  her  anxieties  about  Capt 
J  "lcnt,no  Drake  and  Mrs.  Vesev  gave  her  no  leisure 
for  lesser  ones.  These  for  a  few  dajs  had  been  keen 
and  ,nd,«nant-C«ptain  Drake  had  so  far  forgot 
ten  h,„.elf  as  to  ride  with  Mrs.  ^'ese,  twice  sTncc 
Mrs.  Innes's  arr,val-and  any  display  of  poverty 
of  sp,r,t  was  naturally  impossible  under  the  cir- 
cun^stances.  The  n,on,ent  was  a  critical  one; 
Capta,n  Drake  seen.ed  inclined  to  place  her  in  the 

WW  '   "'  ;"'  r"""'"'"'   f-nds-ladies   who 
looked  on  and  snnled,  content  to  give  hi„,  tea  on 

«.th  perhaps  the  privilege  of  a  tapping  finger  on 

h.  shoulder,  and  an  occasional  order  about  a  rick- 

277 


THE   HESITATION  OF   MISS  ANDERSON 


^-^ 


»lmw.  Mrs.  ^'iok■t  was  not  an  introspective  person, 
or  she  might  have  discovei^tl  liere  that  the  most 
stable  part  of  lier  self-respect  was  her  exigence 
with  Captain  Drake. 

She  found  out  quickly  enough,  however,  that 
she  did  not  mean  to  discard  it.  She  threw  herself, 
therefore — her  fine  shoulders  and  arms,  her  pretty 
clothes,  her  hilarity,  her  complexion,  her  eye- 
lashes, and  all  that  appertained  to  her — into  the 
critical  task  of  making  other  men  believe,  at 
Captain  Drake's  expense,  that  they  were  quite  as 
fond  of  her  as  he  was.  Mrs.  Vesey  took  opposite 
measures,  and  the  Club  laid  bets  on  the  result 

The  Club  was  not  prepossessed  by  Captain 
1  "ake.  He  said  too  little  and  he  implied  too  much. 
He  had  magnificent  shoulders,  which  he  bent  a 
great  deal  over  secluded  sofas,  and  a  very  languid 
interest  in  matters  over  which  ordinary  men  were 
enthusiastic.  He  seemed  to  believe  that  if  he  smiled 
all  the  way  across  his  face,  he  would  damage  a  con- 
ventionality. His  clothes  were  unexceptionable, 
and  he  alwajs  did  the  right  thing,  though  bored  by 
the  necessity.  He  was  good-looking  in  an  ugly 
way,  which  gave  him  an  air  of  restrained  capacity 
for  melodrama,  and  made  women  think  him  inter- 
esting. Somebody  with  a  knack  of  disparagement 
said  that  he  was  too  much  expressed.  It  rather 
added  to  his  unpopularity  that  he  was  a  man  whom 
women  usually  took  with  preposterous  seriousness 
278 


Tin:  IIESITATI     ,   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

—all  but  Kitty  Vcscy,  who  cimrinerf  -rA  licld  him 
by  liir  outrngtous  liberties.  When  .Mrs.  Wscy 
ch«ff.,l  hi,„,  h,.  felt  picturesque.  He  ««s  also 
.mare  <if  inspiring  entertainment  for  the  lookers- 
on,  with  the  feelinjr  at  sueh  times  that  he,  too,  was 
«n  amused  spectator.  This  was,  of  course,  heir 
public  attitude.  In  private  there  was  sentiment, 
and  they  talked  about  tho  tyranny  of  society,  or 
delivered  themselves  of  ideas  suKK.ste.l  by  works 
ot  fiction  which  everybody  simply  hrd  to  read. 

For  a  week  Mrs.  Innes  looked  on,  apparently 
indifferent,  rathe-  apparently   not  observing;  and 
mi   Assistant   Secretary  in  the  Home  Departm.nt 
began  to  fancy  that  his  patience  in  teachipK  »!»■ 
three  .lachsliund  puppies  tricks  was  really   appre- 
ciated.    He  was  an  on-conu-ns  Assistant  Secretary, 
with  other  conspicuous  parts,  and  hitherto  his  time 
had  been  too  valuable  to  spend  upon  la.lies'  dachs- 
hunds.    Mrs.  Innes  had  selected  him  w- 1>.     There 
came  an  evening  when,  at  a  dance  at  the  Lieutenant- 
Governor's,  Mrs.  Innes  was  so  absorbed  in  what  the 
Assistant    Secretary    was    saying   to    her,    as    she 
passed  on  his  arm,  that  she  did  not  see  Captain 
Drake  m  the  corri.Ior  at  all,  although  he  ha<l  care- 
fully broken  an  engagement  to  v  ilk  with  Kittv 
\esey   that   very   afternoon,  as   the   beginning  of 
gradual  and  painless  reform  in  her  direction     His 
unrewarded  virtue  rose  up  and  surprised  him  with 
tlie  distinctness  of  its  resentment;  and  while  his 
2T9 


,  JT^A.  1-. 


r 


fe': 


THE   IlKSITATIOX  OF   MISS  ANDI.RSON 

expression  was  successfully  amused,  Ills  shouMcrs 
mill  the  back  of  liis  neck,  o«  well  ns  tlie  Imml  on  \n» 
iiiustnchc,  spoke  of  discipline  which  proinised  to  he 
efficient.  Reflection  assured  him  that  discipline  was 
after  all  deserved,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later 
found  liim  wagging  his  tail,  so  to  speak,  over  Mrs. 
Iniies's  program  in  a  corner  pleasantly  isolateil. 
'I'he  other  chair  was  oeeiipied  hy  the  Assistant 
Siirelary.      {'ai)tain    Drake   represented   an   inter- 

nipti and  was  oliligeil  to  take  a  step  toward  the 

man  st  li  mp  to  read  the  card.  Three  dances  were 
rather  .).t<'Mt,itiously  left,  anil  Drake  initialed 
them  all.  lie  hronglit  back  the  card  with  a  bow, 
which  spoke  of  dignity  under  bitter  usage,  to- 
gether with  the  indexible  intention  of  courteous 
self-control,  and  turned  away. 

"  Oh,  if  you  please.  Captain  Drake — let  nic  sec 

what  you've  done.     All  those?     But " 

"  Isn't  it  after  eleven,  Mrs.  Innes?  "  asked  the 
Assistant  Secretary,  with  a  tmiid  smile,  lie  vas 
enjoying  himself,  but  he  had  a  respect  for  vested 
interests,  and  those  uf  Criptaii  Drake  were  so  well 
known  th.it  he  felt  a  little  like  a  buccaneer. 

"  Dear  me,  so  it  is!  "  Mrs.  Innes  glanced  at 
one  of  her  bracelets.  "  Then,  Captain  Drake,  I'm 
sorry  " — f;ie  carefully  crossed  out  the  three  "  V. 
D.'s" — "  I  promised  all  the  dances  I  had  left  after 
ten  to  ^Ir.  Ilolmcroft.  Most  of  the  others  I  gave 
away  at  the  gymkhana— really.     Why  weren't  you 


THK   HESITATION  OF   MISS   ANDERSON 

there?  That  Pcr,i..n  tutor  ngnin  !  I'm  nfr.iid  ^ov. 
arc  workinK  'oo  liiird.  Ami  «lmt  did  the  Hani  do, 
Mr.    Ilolriicroft?      If,    like    the   Arabian    Nif;lits 

only  with  real  jewels " 

"Oh,  I  my,  Ilolnieroft,  this  is  too  niiicli  luck, 
vou  know.  Ue,r,||„r  .sw,..|,.t„k,.s,  l,v  .)ov.  !  "  And 
Captain  Drake  iinnvr.,!  on  the  frii'uv  .,f  the  sihia- 
lion. 

"  Perhaps  I  liav..  luci,  ^n vdv."  said  lii.-  Assist- 
ant Secretary,  dipr(\atiiij;lv.     "  Til " 

"Not  in  the  very  l.n.t'l  That  is."  ..v<.|ain..d 
Mrs.  \iolet,  pouting,  ••  if  /•„,  u>  he  ronsid.  d. 
We'll  sit  out  all  but  the  waltzes,  and  yon  slia  .ell 
me  olficial  secrets  ..bout  tbe  Rani.  Sbe  put  us  up 
once,  sbe's  a  delici.ais  old  tbi„fr.  (i,.,,,.  us  slrinrr 
beds  > )  sleep  on  and  roM  plate  lo  .at  from,  and 
swore  about  every  other  wor.l.  She  bad  been  in- 
vesting in  Govrrnment  paper,  and  it  bad  cboppe.l 
three   points.      Must    my   damn    lurk  I '   sbe   said. 

Wasn't   it  exquisite.'     Captain  Drake " 

"  .Mrs.   Intios " 

"  I  doM  t  want  to  be  rude,  but  you're  a  dre.idlid 
embarrassment.  .Mr.  Holmcroft  won't  tell  you  o(H- 
cial  secrets !  " 

"If  she  would  only  beb.ave!"  thouKlit  .Made- 
line, lookiufj;  on,  "  1  would  tell  bcr— indeed  I  would 
— at  once." 

Colonel  Innes  rletached  himself  from  n  group  of 
men  in  mess  dress  as  she  appeared  with  the  Wors- 
281 


11 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

leys,  and  let  himself  drift  with  the  tide  that  brought 
them  always  together. 

"  You  are  looking  tired — ill,"  she  said,  seri- 
ously, as  they  sought  the  unconfessed  solace  of 
each  other's  eyes.  "  Last  night  it  was  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chiefs, and  the  night  before  the  dance 
at  Peliti's.  And  again  to-night.  And  you  are  not 
like  those  of  us  who  car  rest  next  morning — you 
have  always  your  heavy  office  work !  "  She  spoke 
with  indignant,  tender  reproach,  and  he  gave  him- 
self up  to  hearing  it.  "  You  will  have  to  take 
leave  and  go  away,"  she  insisted,  foolishly. 

"Leave!  Good  heavens,  no!  I  wish  all  our 
fellows  were  as  fit  as  I  am.     And " 

"  Yes?  "  she  said. 

"  Don't  pity  me,  dear  friend.  I  don't  think 
it's  good  for  me.  The  world  really  uses  me  very 
well." 

"  Then  it's  all  right,  I  suppose,"  Madeline 
said,  with  sudden  depression. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  You  are  dining  with  us  on 
the  eighth?" 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  I'm  engaged." 

"  Engaged  again  ?  Don't  you  want  to  break 
bread  in  my  house  Miss  Anderson  ?  "  She  was 
silent,  and  he  insisted,  "  Tell  me,"  he  said. 

She  gave  him  instead  a  kind,  mysterious  smile. 

"  I  will  explain  to  j'ou  what  I  feel  about  that 
some  day,"  she  said ;  "  some  day  soon.  I  can't 
282 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 
accept  Mrs.  Inncs's  invitation  for  the  eighth,  but 
—but  Brookes  and  I  are  goinfi  to  take  tea  with  the 
lakirs  monkeys  on  the  top  of  Jakko  to-morrow 
afternoon." 

"  Anybody  else,  or  only  Brookes?  " 

"Only  Brookes."  And  slie  thought  she  had 
abandoned  coquetry! 

'  Then  may  I  come .'  " 

"  Indeed  you  may." 

"I  really  don't  know,"  reflected  Madeline,  as  she 
caught  another  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Innes  vigorously 
aancmg  the  reel  opposite  little  Lord  Billy  in  his 
Highland  uniform,  with  her  hands  on  her  flowered- 
satin  hips,  "  that  I  am  behaving  very  well  myself  " 


19 


883 


i 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HoKACK  IXNES  lookod  round  his  wife's  amw- 
ing-room    as    if   he   were   making    an    inven  ory 
Jit,  carefully  giving  eaeh  article  .s  v.  ue   wWh 
happened,  however,  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
.u7es.    Madeline  Anderson  had  been  saymg  some- 
hfng  the  day  before  about  the  intimacy  and  ac- 
curacy with  which  people's  walls  expressed  them, 
and  though  the  commonplace  was  not  new  to  hm,, 
this  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  led  h.m  to    can 
his  wife's.    What  he  saw  may  be  imag.ned,  but  his 
only  distinct  reflection  was  that  he  had  no  id.a 
hll  she  had  been  photographed  so  vano-ly J  had 
so  many  friends  who  wore  resplendent  Staff  um 
forms.      The   relation   of  cheapness   m   porcelam 
onlents  to  the  lady's  individuality  was  beyo  d 
him,  and  he  could  not  analyze  his  f eehngs  of  s.tt  ng 
in  the  midst  of  her  poverty  of  spn-.t        nde^d 
thinking  of  his  ordinary  unsusceptibd.ty  to  such 
th ingsrhe  told  himself  sharply  that  he  was  adding 
an Tff  etation  of  discomfo^   to  the  others    hat  he 
had  to  bear;  and  that  if  Madeline  had  not  given 
him  the  idea  it  would  never  have  entered  his  mind. 
281 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 
The  loss,  he  mused,  that  one  had  to  with  finiekinR 
feelings  in  this  world  the  better.  They  were  well 
enough  for  people  who  were  tolerably  conditioned 
in  essentiuls-he  preferred  this  vagueness,  even 
with  himself,  in  connection  with  his  marriage- 
otherwise  tliey  added  pricks.  Besi.les  he  had  that 
other  matter  to  think  of. 

He  thought  of  the  other  matter  with  such  ob- 
vious irritation  that  the  butler  coming  in  to  say 
that  the  "English  water'"  was  finished,  and  how 
n,«,ny  dozen  should  he  order,  put  a  chair  in  its  place 
instead,   closed   the   door  softly   again,   and   went 
away.     It  was  not  good  for  the  dignity  of  butlers 
to  ask  questions  of  any  sort  with  a  look  of  that  kind 
under  the  eyebrows  of  the  sahib.     The  matter  was 
not   senous.   Colonel   Inncs   told   himself,   but   ho 
«-ould  prefer  by  comparison  to  deal  with  matters 
that  were  serious.     He  knew  Simla  well  enough  to 
attach  no  overwhelming  importance  to  things  said 
about    women    at    the    Club,    where    the    broadest 
chanty  prevailed  underneath,  and  the  idle  comment 
of  the  moment  had  an  intrinsic  value  as  „  distraction 
rather  than  a  reflective  one  as  a  criticism.     This 
consideration,  however,  was  more  philosophical  in 
connection  with  other  men's  wives.     He  found  very 
httle  in  it  to  palliate  what  he  had  overheard,  sub- 
merged in  the  Times  of  India,  tlmt  afternoon.   And 
to  put  an  edge  on  it,  the  thing  had  been  said  by  one 
*  Soda-water. 

285 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 


&-'' 


of  his  own  juniors.  Luckily  the  boy  had  left  the 
room  without  discovering  who  was  behind  the 
Times  of  India.  Inncs  felt  that  he  should  be  grate- 
ful for  having  been  spared  the  exigency  of  defend- 
ing his  wife  against  a  flippant  word  to  which  she 
had  very  probably  laid  herself  open.  He  was  very 
angry,  and  it  is  perhaps  not  surprising  that  he 
did  not  pause  to  consider  how  far  his  anger  was 
due  to  the  humiliating  necessity  of  speaking  to  her 
about  it.  She  was  coming  at  last  though ;  she  was 
in  the  hall.     He  would  get  it  over  quickly. 

"  Good-by ! "  said  Jlrs.  Inncs  at  the  door. 
"  No,  I  can't  possibly  let  you  come  in  to  tea.  I 
don't  know  how  you  have  the  conscirncc  after 
drinking  three  cups  at  Mrs.  Mickie's,  where  I  had 
no  business  to  take  you!  To-morrow.'  Oh,  all 
right  if  you  want  to  very  badly.  But  I  won't 
promise  you  strawberries — they're  nearly  all 
gone." 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  departing  pony's  trot, 
and  Mrs.  Innes  came  into  the  drawing-room. 

"  Good  heavens,  Horace !  what  are  you  sitting 
there  for  like  a — like  a  ghost?  Why  didn't  you 
make  a  noise  or  something,  and  why  aren't  you  at 
office?    I  can't  tell  you  how  you  startled  me." 

"  It  is  early,"  Colonel  Innes  said.  "  We  ,  e 
neither  of  us  in  the  house,  as  a  rule,  at  this  hour." 

"  Coincidence !  "  Violet  turned  a  cool,  searching 
glance  on  her  husband,  and  held  herself  ready.  "  I 
286 


THE   HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

ca,„e  Lome  early  because  I  want  to  alter  the  lace  on 
"ij  Kllow  bod.ce  lor  to-night.     It's  too  disgustin.. 

Jlrs.  .Mickic's  lot.     So  rowdy !  " 

wanlt"*  ^  ""T  '''"'"''  ^  ^""^  "  ^P'""'  '^"-"  for 
wanting  to  speak  to  you."' 

spite  of  herself,  came  a  little  faster. 

that'lfl^r/,?   '^■"i"^  °"*   *°""'«''*'   I  thought 
In    h  r  f  "*'''  ^"^  "°"-  I  '"'ght  not  hfve 

another  opportunity-till  to-morrow  morning  " 

And  It's  always  a  pity  to  .noil  one's  break- 
something  disagreeable.  What  have  I  been  and 
gone  and  done.'  " 

She  was  dancing,  poor  thing,  in  her  little  vul- 
gar way  on  hot  iron.  But  her  eyes  kept  tlieir  in- 
consistent coolness. 

"I  heard  something  to-day  which  you  are  not 
m  the  way  of  hearing.  You  have-probably-„o 
conception  that  it  could  be  said." 

"Then  she  has  been  telling  other  people 
Ab^olute'y  the  worst  thing  she  could  do!"  M," 
Innes  exclaimed  privately,  sitting  unmoved,  he; 
face  a  httle  too  expectant. 

shocked  and  hurt  by  it.    Indeed,  I  think  there  I  no 

need  to  repeat  it  to  you.     But  I  must  put  you  on 

your  guard.     Men  are  coarser,  you  know!  than 

287 


THE  HESITATION  OF   MISS  ANDERSON 


y 


Mkl 


women ;  tliey  arc  apt  to  put  their  own  interpreta- 
tion  " 

"  What  is  it?  " 

There  was  a  physical  gasp,  a  sharpness  in  her 
voice  that  brouglit  Innes's  eyes  from  tlic  floor  to 
her  face. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but — don't  overesti- 
mate it,  don't  let  it  worry  you.  It  was  simply  a 
very  impertinent— a  very  disagreeable  reference 
to  you  and  Mr.  Holmcroft,  I  think,  in  connection 
with  the  Dovedells'  picnic.  It  was  a  particularly 
silly  thing  as  well,  and  I  am  sure  no  one  would 
attach  any  importance  to  it,  but  it  was  said  openly 
at  the  Club,  and " 

"  Who  said  it?  "  Mrs.  Innes  demanded. 

A  flood  of  color  rushed  over  her  face,  Horace 
marked  that  she  blushed. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Vio- 
let.   It  certainly  was  not  meant  for  your  ears." 

"  If  I'm  not  to  know  whi,  said  it,  I  don't  see 
why  I  should  pay  any  attention  to  it.  Mere  idle 
rumor " 

Innes  bit  his  lip. 

"  Captain  Gordon  said  it,"  he  replied. 

"  Bobby  Gordon !  Do  tell  me  what  he  said ! 
I'm  dving  to  knc"'  Was  he  very  disagreeable  ?  I 
did  give  his  dance  away  on  Thursday  night." 

Innes  looked  at  her  with  the  curf'-us  distrust 
which  she  often  inspired  in  him.  He  had  a  feeling 
288 


THE   HESITATION  OF  iMISS  ANDEUSOX 

that  lie  would  like  to  put  her  out  of  the  room  into 
a  place  by  herself,  and  keep  her  there. 

"  ■  won't  repeat  what  he  said."  Colonel  Inncs 
took  up  the  Saturday  Heview. 

"Oil,  do,  Horace!  I  particularly  want  to 
know." 

Innes  said  notliing. 

"  Horace !  Was  it— was  it  anything  about  Mr. 
Holmcroft  being  my  Secretariat  baa-lamb.'" 

"  If  you  adorn  your  guess  with  a  little  pro- 
fanity," said  Innes,  acidly,  "you  won't  be  far 
wrong." 

Mrs.  Violet  burst  into  a  pcai  of  laughter. 

"  Why,  you  old  goose !  "  she  articulated,  be- 
hind her  handkerchief;  "  he  said  that  to  me." 

Innes  laid  down  the  Saturday  Review. 

"To  you!"  he  repeated;  "Gordon  said  it  to 
you ! " 

"Rather!"  Mrs.  Violet  was  still  mirthful. 
"  I'm  not  sure  that  he  didn't  call  poor  little  Holmie 
something  worse  than  that.  It's  the  purest  jealousy 
on  his  part— nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about." 

The  fourth  skin  which  enables  so  many  of  us 
to  be  callous  to  all  but  the  relative  meaning  of  care- 
less phrases  had  not  been  given  to  Innes,  and  her 
words  fell  upon  his  bare  sense  of  propriety. 

"  Jealous,"  he  said,  "  of  a  iiiurricd  woman.'  I 
find  that  difficult  to  understand." 

Violet's  face  straightened  out. 
289 


'm..  ^mu 


i' 


THE   HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDERSON 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  Horiicc.  Tlicsc  boys  arc  al- 
ways jealous  of  somebody  or  other — it's  the  occu- 
pation of  their  lives!  I  really  don't  sec  how  one 
can  prevent  it." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  a  self-respecting  woman 
should  see  how.  Your  point  of  view  in  these  mat- 
ters is  incomprehensible." 

"  Perhaps,"  Violet  was  driven  by  righteous 
anger  to  say,  "  you  find  Miss  Anderson's  easier  to 
understand." 

Colonel  Innes's  face  took  its  regimental  dis- 
ciplinary look,  and,  thougii  his  eyes  were  aroused, 
his  words  were  quiet  with  repression. 

"  I  see  no  reason  to  discuss  Miss  Anderson  with 
you,"  he  said.  "  She  has  nothing  to  do  with  what 
we  are  talking  about." 

"  Oh,  don't  you,  really !  Hasn't  she,  indeed ! 
I  take  it  you  arc  trying  to  make  me  believe  that 
compromising  things  are  said  about  Mr.  Holmcroft 
and  me  at  the  Club.  Well,  I  advise  you  to  keep 
your  cars  open  a  little  more,  and  listen  to  the  things 
said  about  you  and  JIadeline  Anderson  there.  But 
I  don't  suppose  you  would  be  in  such  a  hurry  to 
repeat  them  to  her." 

Inncs  turned  very  white,  and  the  rigidity  of  his 
face  gave  place  to  a  heavy  dismay.  His  look  was 
that  of  a  man  upon  whom  misfortune  had  fallen 
out  of  a  clear  sky.  For  an  instant  he  stared  at  his 
wife.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  altered. 
290 


WPdP 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDKRSOX 

"  For  Go<l's  sake!  "  l,e  sai.i,  "  l.t  us  have  done 
w.th  th.  p,t.f.,I  wrangling.  I  dar.  say  j-ou  can 
ake  care  of  yourself;  „t  all  events,  I  only  n.eant 
to  warn  you.  But  now  you  must  tell  n.e  exactly 
«_hat  you  mean  by  this  that  you  have  said-this- 
about " 

flectir"  ^''*'''  '"  *'"  ""■''"  "■""  ^^''-  ^"""''^  ''- 

"  Certainly,  I'll  tell  you " 

"  Don't  shout,  please !  " 

"I   mean   simply    that   all    Simla   is    talking 
about  your  affair  with  Miss  Anderson.     Vou  m,.y 
imagine  that  because  you  are  fifteen  years  older 
than  she  ,s  things  won't  be  thought  of,  but  they 
are   .nd  I  hear  it's  been  spoken  about  at  \'iceregal 
Lodge.     I  knor.  Lady  Bloomfield  has  noticed  it, 
for  she  herself  mentioned  it  to  me.     I  told  her  I 
hadn  t  the  slightest  objection,  and  neither  have  I, 
but  there's  an  old  proverb  about  people  in  glass 
houses.    What  are  you  going  to  do'" 

Colonel  Innes's  expression  was  certainly  alarm- 
ing, and  he  had  made  a  step  toward  her  that  had 
•nenace  in  it. 

"  I  «n>  going  out,"  he  said,  and  turned  and  left 
her  to  her  triumph. 


291 


_ 


^  .^ym 


CHAPTER    IX 


SiiF. — Violet — Imd  iinspt'nknbly  vulgarized  it, 
but  it  imist  lie  true — it  must  he,  to  some  extent,  true. 
She  iniiy  even  have  lied  about  it,  hut  the  truth  was 
tliere,  fundamentally,  in  the  mere  fact  that  it  had 
been  suffjjested  to  her  imngi  nation.  Madeline's 
name,  which  bad  come  to  be  for  him  an  epitome 
of  what  was  finest  and  most  valuable,  most  to  be 
lived  for,  was  dropping  from  men's  lips  into  a 
kind  of  an  abyss  <jf  dishonorable  suggestion.  There 
was  no  way  out  of  it  or  around  it.  It  was  a  cloud 
which  encompassed  them,  suddenly  blackening 
down. 

There  was  nothing  that  be  could  do — nothing. 
Except,  yes,  of  course — that  was  obvious,  as  ob- 
vious as  any  other  plain  duty.  Through  his  sel- 
fishness it  bad  a  beginning;  in  spite  of  bis  selfish- 
ness it  should  have  an  end.  That  went  without 
saying.  No  more  walks  or  rides.  In  a  con- 
ventional way,  perhaps — but  notliing  deliberate, 
designed — and  never  alone  together.  Gossip 
about  flippant  married  women  was  bad  enough,  but 
that  it  should  concern  itself  with  an  unprotected 
293 


Tin:   llKSITA'ilON   OF  MISS  ANDEKSOX 

creature  like  Madeline  «n,  monstrous,  inrre.lil.le 
He  »tr<xle  fier<vl;y  into  the  roml  n.un.l  .lakko,  an.l 
no  little  harmless  snake,  if  it  l,a,l  .rattle,!  across  his 
path,  would  have  failed  to  suffer  a  ,,uiek  fa.e  under 
the  K<i'dttnce  of  his  imagination.  Hut  there  was 
nothing  for  hin.  to  kill,  and  he  turned  upon  him- 
self. 

The  sun  went  down   into  the  Punjab  and  left 
Rrent  blue-and-jiurple  hill  worlds  harring  the  pas- 
sage behind  him.    'J'he  deodars  sank  waist  deep  into 
filmy  shadow,  and  the  yellow  afterliKht  Uy  silently 
amons  their  branches.     A  pink-haunched  monkey 
lopad.ng   across   the   road   with   a   great   show    of 
pru,lence  seemed  to  have  .strayed  into  an  unfanu-liar 
country,  and  the  rustling  twigs  behind  him  made 
an  episode  of  sound.     The  road  in  perpetual  curve 
between  its  little  stone  parapet  and  the  broa.l  flank 
of  the  hill  rose  and  fell  under  the  deodars;  Innes 
took  Its  slopes  and  its  steepnesses  with  even    un- 
slackened  .stride,  aware  of  no  difference,  aware  of 
little  indeed  except  the  physical  necessity  of  move- 
ment, spurred  on  by  a  futile  instinct  that  the  end 
of  Ins  walk  would  be  the  end  of  his  trouble— his 
amazing,  black,  menacing  trouble.     A  pony's  trot 
behind  him  struck  through  the  silence  like  percus- 
sion-caps; all  Jakko  seemed  to  echo  with  it;  and 
It  came  nearer— insistent,  purposeful— but  he  was 
hardly  aware  of  it  until  the  creature  pulled  up  be- 
side him,  and  Madeline,  slipping  quickly  off,  said— 
S93 


THK   HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDEUSOV 


"  I'm  reining  too." 

He  took  off  Ills  Imt  nntl  sturctl  at  her.  She 
accmcd  to  rrpresnil  ii  eliinux. 

"  I'm  roiiiiii((  too,"  she  siiid.  "  I'm  tired  of 
pick  flies  off  the  Turk,  und  he's  reiilly  unheiir- 
uhlc  auout  them  to-iiiglit.  Here,  syce."  Slic 
threw  the  reins  to  the  man  and  turned  to  Innes  with 
a  smile  of  relief.  "  I  wouUI  much  rather  do  a  walk. 
Why — you  want  me  to  cojne  too,  don't  you?  " 

His  face  was  all  one  ncj^ative,  and  unilcr  the 
unexpectedness  of  it  and  the  amazement  of  it  her 
questioning  eyes  slowly  filled  with  sudden,  uncon- 
trollahle  tears,  so  that  she  had  to  lower  them,  and 
look  steadily  at  the  hoof-marks  in  the  roi.d  while  she 
waited  for  his  answer. 

"  You  know  how  I  feci  about  seeing  you — how 
glad  I  always  am,"  he  stammered.    "  But  there  are 

reasons " 

"  Reasons?  "  she  repeated,  half  audibly. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you.     I  will  write. 

But  let  me  put  you  up  again " 

"  I  will  not,"  Madeline  said,  with  a  sob,  "  I 
won't  be  sent  home  like  a  child.  I  am  going  to 
walk,  but — but  I  can  quite  well  go  alone."  She 
started  forward,  and  hi.r  foot  caught  in  her  h^bit 
so  that  she  made  an  awkward  stumble  and  came 
down  on  her  knee.  In  rising  she  stumbled  ag  in, 
and  his  quick  arm  was  necessary.  Looking  down 
at  her,  he  saw  that  she  was  crying  bitterly.  The 
S94i 


TIIK  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANnKIlSON 

tension  h«(I  Instcil  lotiR,  and  the  »nnp  Imd  c-jiiic 
wlkti  slic  Knst  rx|H'rtiil  it. 

"  Stop,"  Iim.s  siii.l,  firmly,  Jmrdly  daring  to 
turn   his  head  and  ascirtain   tlir  lilissi,!  fact   that 
ihvy  were  still  alone.     "  Stop  instantly.     Von  shall 
not  go  hy  yonrselC."     He  flicked  the  dnst  off  her 
liabit     with     his     jmcket-handkerchief.       "Come, 
please;    we    will   g„   „n    together."      Her   distress 
seemed  to  make  things  simple  again.     It  was  as  if 
the  clond  that  hung  over  them  h«,l  n.elted  as  she 
wept,  and  lifted,  and  drifte<l  a  little  further  on. 
For  the  moment,  naturally,  nothing  muttered  ex- 
cept that  .she  should  ho  condorteil.     As  she  walked 
by  his  side  shaken  with  her  effort  at  self-control, 
he  had  to  a  resist  the  impulse  to  touch  her.     His 
hand  tingled  to  do  its  part  in  soothing  her,  his  arm 
ached  to  protect  her,  while  he  vaguely  felt  an  ele- 
ment of  right,  of  justice,  in  her  tears;  they  were 
in  a  manner  his  own.    What  he  did  was  to  turn  and 
ask  the  syce  following  if  he  had  loosened  the  Turk's 
saddle-girths. 

"I  shall  be  better— in  a  moment,"  Madeline 
saM,  md  he  answered,  "Of  course";  hut  they 
walked  on  -nd  said  nothing  more  until  the  road 
ran  out  from  under  the  last  deodar  and  round  the 
first  bare  boulder  that  marked  the  beginning  of 
the  Ladies'  Milr  It  lay  rolled  out  before  them, 
the  Ladies'  Mile,  sinuous  and  gray  and  empty, 
along  the  face  of  the  cliff;  they  could  .see  from  one 
295 


■fm 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 


I 


end  of  it  to  the  other.  It  was  the  bleak  side  of 
Jakko;  even  to-night  there  was  a  fresh  springing 
coldness  in  it  blowing  over  from  the  hidden  snows 
behind  the  rims  of  the  nearer  hills.  Madeline  held 
up  her  face  to  it,  and  gave  herself  a  moment  of  its 
grateful  discipline. 

"  I  have  been  as  foolish  as  possible,"  she  said, 
"  as  foolish  as  possible.  I  have  distressed  you. 
Well,  I  couldn't  help  it — that  is  all  there  is  to  be 
said.  Now  if  you  will  tell  me — what  is  in  your 
mind — what  you  spoke  of  writing — I  will  mount 
again  and  go  home.  It  doesn't  matter — I  know 
you  didn't  mean  to  be  unkind."  Her  lip  was  trem- 
blin;^  again,  and  he  knew  it,  and  dared  not  look  at  it. 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  to  tell  you — miserable 
things ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  How  can  I  find  the 
words?  And  I  have  only  just  been  told — I  can 
hardly  myself  conceive  it " 

"  I  am  not  a  child  in  her  teens  that  my  ears 
should  be  guarded  from  miserable  things.  I  have 
come  of  age,  I  have  entered  into  my  inheritance  of 
the  world's  bitterness  with  the  rest.  I  can  listen," 
Madeline  said.     "  Why  not.?  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  grave  tenderness.  "  You 
think  yourself  very  old,  and  very  wise  about  the 
world,"  he  said ;  "  but  you  arc  a  woman,  and  you 
will  ae  hurt.  And  when  I  think  that  a  little  ordi- 
nary forethought  on  my  part  would  have  pro- 
tected you,  I  feel  like  the  criminal  I  am." 
296 


-^?.^>:.;-^' 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

"  Don't  make  too  m.icl,  of  it,"  slic  said,  simply. 

"  I  have  a  presentiment " 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  Innes  said,  slowly ;  «  I  won't 
niggie  about  it.  The  peoi)lc  of  this  place  -idiots ! 
—are  unable  to  believe  that  a  tnan  and  «  woman 
can  be  to  eacli  other  what  we  are." 

"  Yes.?  "  said  .Madeline.  She  paused  beside  the 
parapet  and  looked  down  at  the  indistinct  little 
fields  below,  and  the  blurred  masses  of  white  wild 
roses  waving  midway  against  the  precipice. 

"  They  can  not  understand  that  there  can  be 
any  higher  plane  of  intercourse  between  us  than 
the  one  they  know.  They  won't  see— they  can't 
see— that  the  satisfaction  we  find  in  being  together 
is  of  a  different  nature." 

"I  see,"  said  Madeline.  She  had  raised  her 
eyes,  and  they  sough':  the  solemn  lines  of  the  hori- 
zon. She  looked  as  u'  she  saw  something  infinitely 
lifted  above  the  pettiness  he  retailed  to  her. 

"  S°  fi^y  s,ay— goori  God,  why  should  I  tell 
you  what  they  say!"  It  suddenly  flashed  upon 
him  that  the  embodiment  of  it  in  words  would  be  at 
once,  from  him,  sacrilegious  and  ludicrous.  It 
flash-d  upon  him  that  her  natural  anger  would 
bring  him  pain,  and  that  if  slio  laughed— it  was 
so  hard  to  tell  when  she  would  laugh— it  would  be 
as  if  she  struck  him.  He  cast  about  him  dumb  and 
helpless  while  she  kept  her  invincibly  quiet  gaze 
upon  the  farther  hills.  She  was  thinking  that  this 
297 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 


If-  ■ 
ill, 


L'  -h 


breath  of  gossip,  now  that  it  had  blown,  was  a 
very  slight  affair  compared  with  Horace  Innes's 
misery — which  he  did  not  seem  to  understand. 
Then  her  soul  rose  up  in  her,  brushing  everything 
aside,  and  forgetting,  alas!  the  vow  it  had  once 
made  to  her. 

"  I  think  I  know,"  she  snid.  "  Thry  are  indeed 
foolish.  They  say  that  we — love  each  other.  Is 
not  that  what  they  say  ?  " 

He  looked  in  amazement  into  her  tender  eyes 
and  caught  at  the  little  mocking  smile  about  her 
lips.  Suddenly  the  world  grew  light  about  him, 
the  shadows  fled  away.  Somewhere  down  in  the 
valley,  he  remembered  afterward,  a  hill-flute  made 
music.  When  he  spoke  it  was  almost  in  a  whisper, 
lest  he  should  disturb  some  newly  perceived  lovely 
thing  that  had  wings,  and  might  leave  him.  "  Oh, 
Madeline,"  he  said,  "  is  it  true?  "  She  only  smiled 
on  in  gladness  that  took  no  heed  of  any  apprehen- 
sion, any  fear  or  scruple,  and  he  himself  keeping 
his  eyes  upon  her  face,  said,  "  It  is  true." 

So  they  stood  for  a  little  time  in  silence  while 
she  resisted  her  great  opportunity.  She  resisted  it 
to  the  end,  and  presently  beckoned  to  the  syce,  who 
came  up  leading  the  pony.  Innes  mounted  her 
mechanically  and  said,  "  Is  that  all  right?  "  as  she 
put  her  foot  in  the  stirrup,  without  knowing  that 
be  had  spoken. 

"  Good-by,"   she  said ;  "  I  am  going  away — 
298 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 
immediately.  It  will  be  better.  And  listcn-I  have 
known  this  for  weeks-and  I  have  gone  on  seeing 
you.  And  I  hope  I  am  not  any  more  wieked  than 
I  feel.     Good-by." 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  taking  his  hand  from 
the  pony's  neck,  and  she  rode  buoyantly  away 
He,  turning  to  breast  the  road  again,  saw  dark- 
ness gathering  .n.r  the  end  of  it,  and  drawing 
nearer.  ° 

At  eleven  o'elock  next  morning  Brookes  rose 
from  her  packing  to  take  a  note  addressed  to  her 
mistress  from  the  hand  of  a  messenger  in  the  Im- 
perial red  and  gold.    It  ran  : 

"Deai  Miss  Anderson— I  write  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  obtained  three  weeks'  leave,  and  I  am 
going  into  the  interior  to  shoot,  starting  this  after- 
noon. You  spoke  yesterday  of  leaving  Simla  al- 
most immediately.  I  trust  you  will  not  do  this  as 
^  woul.1  be  extremely  risky  to  venture  down  to  the 
Plains  just  now.  !„  ten  days  the  rains  will  have 
broken,  when  it  will  be  safe.  Pray  wait  till  then. 
Yours  sincerely, 

"  Hoil.vCE  I.VNES." 

Involuntarily  the  letter  found  its  way  to  Made- 
Ime-s  hps,  and  remained  there  until  she  saw  the 
maid  observing  her  with  intelligence. 

"Brookes,"  she  said,  "  I  am  strongly  advised 
2"  299 


I- 


m 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

not  to  start  until  the  rains  break.    I  think,  on  the 
whole,  that  wc  won't." 

"  Indeed,  miss,"  returned  Brookes,  "  Mrs.  Ser- 
geant Simmons  told  me  that  it  was  courting 
cholera  to  go — and  nothing  short  of  it.  I  must 
say  I'm  thankful." 


300 


firi: 


CHAPTER   X 

A  WEEK  later  Colonel  Innes  had  got  his  leave, 
and  had  left  Simla  for  the  snow-line  by  what  is 
faec  t.ously  known  as  «  the  carriage  road  to  Tibet  " 
Madeline  had  done  as  she  was  bidden,  and  was  wait- 
ing for  the  rains  to  break.  Another  day  had  come 
without  them.  To  write  and  tell  Innes,  to  write 
and  tell  Violet,  to  go  away  and  leave  the  situation 
as  she  found  it;  she  had  lived  and  moved  and  slept 
and  awakened  to  these  alternatives.  At  tlie  moment 
she  slept. 

It  was  early,  very  early  in  the  morning.     The 
hills  all  about  seened  still  unaware  of  it,  standing  in 
the  grayness  co.npact,  silent,  immutable,  as  if  thcv 
slept  with  their  eyes  open.     Nothing  spoke  of  the 
oncoming  sun,  nothing  was  yet  surprised.     The  hill 
world  lifted  itself  unconscious  in  a  pale  solution  of 
daylight,  and  only  on  the  sky-line,  very  far  away, 
I    rippled  into  a  cioud.     The  fli    .y  to^n  clinging 
steeply  roof  above  ro..'  to  the  slope,  mounting  to 
the  saddle  and  slipping  over  on  the  other  side,  cut 
the  dawn  with  innumerable  little  lines  and  angles  all 
in  one  tone  like  a  pencil  drawing. 

There  was  no  feeling  in  it,  no  expression.      It 
301 


f 


n 


THE  HESITATION   OF   MISS  ANDERSON 

had  a  temporary  air  in  that  light,  like  trampled 
snow,  and  even  the  big  Secretariat  buildings  that 
raised  themselves  here  and  there  out  of  the  huddling 
bazaar  looked  trivial,  childish  enterprises  in  the  sim- 
ple revelation  of  the  morning.     A  cold  silence  was 
abroad,  which  a  crow  now  and  then  vainly  tried  to 
disturb  with  a  note  of  tentative  enterprise,  forced, 
premature.    It  announced  that  the  sun  would  prob- 
ably rise,  but  nothing  more.      In  the  little  dark 
shops  of  the  wood-carvers  an  occasional  indefinite 
figure  moved,  groping  among  last  night's  tools,  or 
an  old  woman  in  a  red  sari  washed  a  brass  dish  over 
the  shallow  open  drain  that  ran  past  her  door.     At 
the  tonga  terminus,  below  the  Mall,  a  couple  of 
coughing  syces,  muffled  in  their  blankets,  pulled  one 
of  these  vehicles  out  of  the  shed.     They  pushed  it 
about  sleepilv,  with  clumsy  futility ;  nothing  else 
stirred  or  spoke  at  all  in  Sim'a.    Nothing  disturbed 
Miss  Anderson  asleep  in  her  hotel. 

A  brown  figure  in  a  loin-cloth,  with  a  burden, 
appeared  where  the  road  turned  down  from  the 
Mall,   and    then   another,   and   several   following. 
,    They  were  coolies,  and  they  carried  luggage. 

The  first  to  arrive  beside  the  tonga  bent  and 
loosed  the  trunk  he  brought,  which  slipped  from  his 
back  to  the  ground.  The  syces  looked  at  him,  say- 
ing nothing,  and  he  straightened  himself  against 
the  wall  of  the  hillside,  also  in  silence.  It  was  too 
early  for  conversation.  Thus  did  all  the  others. 
303 


THE  HESITATION  OP  MISS  AXl"  ■  RHOV 

When  the  last  portmanteau  lind  liien  dtiwsitcd, 
a  kliaki-colorcil  lieai)  o"  tl"-'  shed  floor  rose  up  as  a 
broad-shouldered  Punjabi  driver,  and  walked  round 
the  lufjgage,  looking  at  it. 

"  And  you,  owls'  brethren,"  he  said,  with  sar- 
casm, addressing  tlio  first  coolie,  "  you  have  under- 
taken to  carry  these  matter  fifty-eight  kos  •  to 
Kalka,  have  you?  " 

"Nil,"  replied  the  coolie,  stolidly,  and  spat. 
"  How  else,  then,  is  it  to  be  taken?  "  the  driver 
cried,  with  anger  in  his  argument.  "  Behold  the 
mcmsahib  has  ordered  but  one  tonga,  and  a  fool- 
thing  of  an  ekka.  Here  is  work  for  si.K  tongas ! 
What  reason  is  there  in  this  ?  " 

The  coolie  folded  liis  naked  arms,  and  dug  in 
the  dust  with  an  unconcerned  toe. 

"  I,  what  can  I  do?  "  he  said.  «  It  is  the  order 
of  the  memsahib." 

Ram  Singh  grunted  and  said  no  more.  A  rick- 
shaw was  coming  down  from  the  Mall,  and  the  mem- 
sahib was  in  it. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  ponies  stood  in  their  traces 
under  the  iron  bar,  and  the  lady  sat  in  the  tonga 
behind  Ram  Singh.  Her  runners,  in  uniform, 
waited  beside  the  empty  rickshaw  with  a  puzzled 
look,  at  which  she  laughed,  and  threw  a  rupee  to 
the  head  man. 

The  luggage  was  piled  and  corded  on  three  ekkas 
*  Miles. 

303 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSOK 


behind,  and  their  cross-legged  drivers,  too,  were 
ready. 

"  Chellao! "  *  she  cried,  crisply,  iind  Rnni 
Singh  iniperturbubly  lifted  the  reins.  The  little 
jirocession  clunked  and  jingled  along  the  hillside, 
iilways  tending  down,  und  broke  upon  the  early 
gniy  melanclioly  witli  a  forced  and  futile  cheerful- 
ness, too  eurly,  like  everything  else.  As  it  passed 
the  last  of  Simla's  little  gardens,  spread  like  a 
pe.ket-handkerchief  on  the  side  of  the  hill,  the  lady 
leaned  forward  and  looked  back  as  if  she  wished 
to  impress  the  place  upcn  her  memory.  Her  ex- 
pression was  that  of  a  person  going  forth  with- 
out demur  into  the  day's  hazards,  ready  to  cope 
with  them,  yet  there  was  some  regret  in  the  back- 
ward look. 

"  It's  a  place,"  she  said  oloud,  "  where  every- 
hodj)  has  a  good  time !  " 

Then  the  Amusement  Club  went  out  of  sight 
behind  a  curve;  and  she  settled  herself  more  com- 
fortably among  her  cushions,  and  drew  a  wrap 
round  her  to  meet  the  chill  wind  of  the  valley.  It 
was  all  behind  her.  The  lady  looked  out  as  the 
ponies  galloped  up  to  the  first  changing-place,  and, 
seeing  a  saddled  horse  held  by  a  syce,  cramped  her- 
self a  little  into  one  corner  to  make  room.  The  seal 
would  just  hold  two. 

Ram  Singh  salaamed,  getting  dov,  n  to  harness 
*  "  Go  on  ! " 
304 


'^  ^^T 


THE  HESITATION  OP  MISS  ANDERSON 
the  fresh  pair,  and  a  man  put  his  face  in  at  the 
side  of  the  tongn  and  took  off  liis  liat. 

"  Are  you  all  right?  "  he  said.  His  smile  was 
as  conscious  as  his  words  were  casual. 

"Quite  right.  The  ayah  was  silly  al.oiit 
com.ng-didn't  want  to  leave  her  babies  or  so.ne- 
th.ng-so  I  had  to  leave  lier  iKhind.  Everything 
else  IS  cither  here  or  in  the  ekkiis." 

"The  brute!  Never  mind— they're  not  much 
use  m  a  railway  journey.  You  can  pick  up 
another  at  Bombay.  Then  I  suj.pose  I'd  better 
get  in." 

"  I  suppose  you  better  had.  Unless  you  think 
of  walking,"  she  laughed,  and  he  took  the  jilace  be- 
side her. 

Ram  Singh  again  unquestioningly  took  up  the 
rein.i. 

"  Nobody  else  going  down.'  " 

"Not  another  soul.  We  might  just  as  well 
have  started  together." 

"  Oh,  well,  we  couldn't  tell.  Beastly  awkward 
II  there  had  been  anybody." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  but  thrust  up  her  under  lip 
indifferently. 

Then,  with  the  effect  of  turning  to  the  business 
in  hand,  she  bent  her  eyes  upon  him  understand- 
ingly  and  smiled  in  frank  reference  to  something 
that  had  not  been  mentioned.  "  It's  good-by  to 
Simla,  isn't  it.'  »  she  sai.l.  He  smiled  in  response 
305 


!>' 


r 


fe  j 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

and  put  his  hand  upon  her  firm,  round  omi,  pos- 
sessively, und  they  began  to  tnllc. 

Uam  Singh,  all  unaware,  kept  his  horses  at 
their  steady  clanking  downward  gallop,  and  Simla, 
clinging  to  the  hilltops,  was  brushed  by  the  first 
rays  of  the  sun. 

It  came  a  gloriously  clear  morning!  corly 
riders  round  .Tukko  saw  the  real  India  lying  beyond 
the  outer  ranges,  flat  and  blue  and  pictured  with 
forests  and  rivers  like  o  map.  The  plains  were 
pretty  and  interesting  in  this  aspect,  but  nobody 
found  them  very  attractive.  Sensitive  people  liked 
it  better  when  the  heat  mist  veiled  them  and  it  was 
possible  to  look  abroad  without  a  sudden  painful 
thought  of  contrasting  temperatures.  We  may 
suppose  that  tlie  inhabitants  of  Paradise  sometimes 
grieve  over  their  luck.  Even  Madeline  Anderson, 
whose  heart  knew  no  constriction  at  the  remembrance 
of  brother  or  husband  at  some  cruel  point  in  the 
blue  expanse,  had  come  to  turn  her  head  more  will- 
ingly the  other  way,  toward  the  hills  rolling  up  to 
the  snows,  being  a  woman  who  suffered  by  proxy, 
and  by  observation,  and  by  lludyard  Kipling. 

On  this  particular  morning,  however,  she  had 
not  elected  to  do  eiuier.  She  slept  late  instead,  and 
was  glad  to  sleep.  I  might  as  well  say  at  once  that 
on  the  night  before  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  had 
brought  herself  to  the  point,  and  had  written  to 
Mrs.  Inncs,  at  "  Two  Gables,"  all  the  facts,  in  so 

aoG 


li-J. 


THE   HESITATION   OF   MISS  AVDERSON 

fur  IIS  slio  wns  iirqiminti-cl  uitli  llifrii,  coimcrtid  uilli 
Frederick  PnnilcrKnst's  dciitli.  She  was  very 
much  Hshaiiied  o{  herself,  poor  jtirl;  she  was  a«arc 
that,  through  her  postpor  iiient,  Horace  Innes 
would  now  see  his  jirohleni  in  all  its  hitteriiess,  uiako 
lu's  choice  with  his  eyes  wide  ojien.  If  it  iiad  only 
liaijpened  before  he  knew— auytiiinjr  about  her ! 

She  charged  herself  with  having  deliberately 
waited,  and  then  spent  an  exhausting  hour  trying 
to  believe  that  she  had  drifted  unconsciously  to  the 
point  of  their  mutual  confession.  Whatever  the 
truth  was,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  recognize  a  new 
voice  in  her  private  counsels  from  that  hour,  urg- 
ing her  in  one  way  or  another  to  bring  matters  to 
an  end.  It  was  n  strong  instinct;  looking  at  the 
facts,  she  saw  it  was  tlie  gambler's.  When  she 
tried  to  think  of  the  ethical  considerations  involved 
she  saw  only  the  chances.  The  air  seemed  to  throb 
with  them  all  night;  she  had  to  count  them  finally 
to  get  rid  of  them. 

Brookes  was  up  betimes,  however,  and  sent  off 
the  letter.  It  went  duly,  by  Surnoo,  to  Mrs.  Innes 
at  "  Two  Gables."  JIadclinc  woke  at  seven  with  a 
start,  and  asked  if  it  had  gone,  then  slept  again 
contentedly.  So  far  as  she  was  concerned  the  thing 
was  finished.  The  breakfast  gong  had  sounded, 
and  the  English  mail  had  arrived  before  she  opened 
her  eyes  again  upon  the  day's  issues ;  she  gave  it 
her  somewhat  desultory  attention  while  Brookes  did 
30 


*"N..| 


t  <  -* 


TIIK  HESITATIO>r  OF  MISS  ANDERSO.^f 


luT  Imir.  TIktc  van  only  one  scrnj)  of  ni'ws.  Adi^lc 
mcntioni'd  in  a  postscript  tliat  poor  Mr.  Prcndcr- 
gast's  money  wns  likely  to  go  to  a  distant  relative, 
it  having  transijjred  timt  lie  died  without  leaving 
u  will. 

"  Sill'  is  siiri',  ulisiilutcly  suit,"  MiuKline  niiised, 
"  111  unsttiT  my  lellir  in  pirsoii.  She  will  he  hero 
within  un  htiiir.  I  shall  have  this  to  tell  her,  too. 
How  pleased  she  wilt  be!  She  will  roine  into  it  all, 
I  su])|)<)se — if  she  is  allowed.  Though  she  won't 
be  allowed,  that  is  il' — "  But  there  s[KTulatioii 
began,  and  .Madeline  had  forbidden  herself  specu- 
lation, if  not  once  and  for  nil,  at  least  many  times 
and  for  fifteen  minutes. 

No  leasonablo  purpose  would  be  served  by  Mrs. 
Innes's  visit,  Madeline  reflected,  ns  she  sat  waiting 
in  the  little  room  opening  on  the  veranda;  but  she 
W01.U1  come,  of  course  she  would  come.  She  would 
require  the  satisfaction  of  the  verbal  assurance;  she 
would  hope  to  extract  more  details ;  she  would  want 
the  objectionable  gratification  of  talking  it  over. 

In  sjiite  of  any  assurance,  she  would  believe  that 
Madeline  had  not  told  her  before  in  order  to  make 
her  miserable  a  little  longer  than  she  need  be ;  but, 
after  all,  her  impression  about  that  did  not  particu- 
larly matter.  It  couldn't  possibly  be  a  pleasant 
interview,  yet  Madeline  found  herself  impatient 
for  it. 

"  Surnoo,"  she  said  of  her  messenger,  "  must  be 
308 


THi:   HKSITATION  OP   MIss  ANDKUSON 

i<lliiiK  on  lii»  wny  huk  in  tlio  Imzaar.  I  must  try 
to  rtine.nlxr  to  fine  liini  two  pice.  Surnoo  i»  i„. 
corrigible." 

Slie  forfTot,  however,  to  fine  Surnoo.  'l'|,c  jm.l 
of  liis  bare  le.t  ^ounile.l  a!„„K  tbe  ven.n.l,.  al„„„t, 
"'"'"•li"lelv,  an.l  tlie  look  i„  bi.s  Pal,,,,-!  ..v.s  was 
tliat  of  expected  reproach,  u:.<l  ability  t,)",lefeiul 
liHiisclf  against  it. 

He  held  out  two  letters  at  arin-s-lenKtb,  („,•  as 
he  was  exjiected  to  brinj?  only  one  there  was  a  fault 
in  this;  and  all  his  domestic  traditions  told  him  that 
he  inifiht  be  chaslened.  One  was  addresse.l  to 
Madeline  in  Jlrs.  Innes's  handwriting;  the  other, 
she  saw  with  astonishment,  was  her  own  romrnuni- 
cat.on  to  that  lady,  her  own  letter  retnrne.l.  Sur- 
noo explained  volubly  all  the  way  alonfj  the 
veranda,  and  in  the  floo,l  of  his  unknown  tongue 
Madeline  caught  a  sentence  or  two. 

"  The  menisahib  was  not,"  said  Surioo.  Clearly 
he  could  not  deliver  a  letter  to  a  menisahib  who  was 
not.  "Therefore,"  Surnoo  continued,  "I  have 
brought  back  your  honor's  letter,  and  the  other  I 
li'ul  from  the  hand  of  the  inemsahib's  runner,  the 
runner  with  one  eye,  who  was  on  the  road  to  bring 
it  here.  More  I  do  not  know,  but  it  appears  that 
he  menisahib  has  gone  to  her  father  and  mother  in 
IJelaat,*  being  very  sorrowful  because  the  Colonel- 
sahib  has  left  her  to  shoot." 
*  Enffland. 

309 


THE  HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

"  The  letter  will  tell  me,"  Madeline  said  to  her- 
self, fingering  it.     "  Enough,  Surnoo." 

The  man  went  away,  and  Jliideline  closed  and 
locked  the  door  of  her  sitting-room.  Tlie  letter 
would  tell  her — what.''  She  glanced  about  her  with 
dissatisfaction,  .md  souglit  tlie  greater  privacy  of 
her  bedroom,  where  also  she  locked  the  door  and 
drew  the  muslin  curtain  across  tlie  window.  Slio 
laid  the  letter  on  the  dressing-table  and  kept  her 
eyes  upon  it  while  she  unfastened,  with  trembling 
hands,  the  brooch  at  her  neck  and  the  belt  at  her 
waist.  She  did  one  or  two  other  meaningless 
tilings,  as  if  she  wanted  to  gain  time,  to  fortify 
her  nerves  even  against  an  exhibition  before  her- 
self. 

Then  she  sat  down  with  her  back  toward  tlie 
light  and  opened  the  letter.  It  had  a  pink  look 
and  a  scented  air.  Even  in  her  beating  suspense 
Madeline  held  it  a  little  farther  away  from  her, 
as  she  unfolded  it,  and  it  ran : 

"  Dear  Miss  Andersox — What  will  you  say, 
I  wonder,  and  what  will  Simla  say,  when  you  know 
that  Captain  Drake  and  I  have  determined  to 
disregard  conventionalities,  and  live  henceforward 
only  for  one  another!  I  am  all  packed  up,  and 
long  before  this  meets  your  eye  we  shall  have  taken 
the  step  which  society  condemns,  but  which  I  have 
a  feeling  thai  you,  knowing  my  storm-tossed 
310 


THE  HESITATION  OF   MISS     .NDERSON 

history,  will  be  broad-minded  en.  je!,  to  syjnj.  ihize 
with,  at  least  to  some  extent.    1 !  U  i?  th.:  re  ison  I 
am  writing  to  you  rather  than  to  any  oi  ..ly  own 
chums,  and  also  of  course  to  have  the  satisfaction 
of  telliny  you  that  I  no  longer  care  what  you  do 
about  letting  out  the  secret  of  my  marriage  to 
Eroderick  I'rendergast.     I  am  now  above  and  be- 
yond it.    Any  way  you  look  at   it,  I  do  not  see  that 
I  am  much  to  blame.    As  I  never  have  been  Colonel 
Innes's  wife  there  can  be  no  harm  in  leaving  him, 
though  if  he  had  ever  been  sympathetic,  or  under- 
stood nic  the  least  little  bit,  I  might  have  felt  bound 
to  hnn.     Hut  lie  has  never  been  able  to  evoke  the 
finer  jjiirts  of  my  nature,  and  when  this  is  the  case 
marriage  is  a  mere  miserable  fleshly  failure.     You 
may   say,   'Why   try  it  a  third  time?'— but   my 
union  with  Val  will  be  different.     I  have  never  been 
fond  of  the  opposite  sex— so   far  as  that  goes  I 
should  have  made  a  very  good  nun — but  for  a  long 
time  \'alentine  Drake  has  been  the  only  man  I  cared 
to  have  come  within  a  mile  of  me,  and  lately  we  have 
discovered  that  we  arc  absolutely  necessary  to  each 
other's  existence  on  the  higher  plane.     I  don't  care 
much  what  Simla  thinks,  but  if  you  happen  to  be 
talking   about    it   to    dear   Lady   Bloomfield,   you 
might  just  mention  this.     Val  has  eight  hundred  a 
year  of  his  own,  so  it  is  perfectly  practicable.    Of 
course,  he  will  send  in  his  papers.     Whatever  hap- 
pens, Val  and   I  will   never  bind  ourselves  in  any 
311 


'■j:-^:!.'m^T^  *  jir2iP*_.*E:.-ar.3 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDEllSON 

way.  Wc  both  think  it  wrong  and  enslaving.  I 
have  nothing  more  to  add,  except  that  I  am  depend- 
ing on  you  to  explain  to  Simla  that  I  never  was 
Mrs.  Inncs. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  Violet  Pbendergast. 


"  P.S. — I  have  written  to  Horace,  telling  him 
everything  about  everything,  and  sent  my  letter  off 
to  him  in  the  wilds  by  a  runner.  If  you  see  him  you 
might  try  and  smooth  him  down.  I  don't  want  him 
coming  after  Val  with  a  revolver." 


■•||r-.    -f: 


-*"*^iff''". 


Madeline  read  this  communication  through 
twice.  Then  quietly  and  deliberately  she  lay  down 
upon  the  bed,  and  drew  herself  out  of  the  control 
of  her  heart  by  the  hard  labor  of  thought.  When 
she  rose,  she  had  decided  that  there  were  only  two 
things  for  her  to  do,  and  she  began  at  once  to  do 
them,  continuing  her  refuge  in  action.  She  threw 
her  little  rooms  open  again,  and  walked  methodi- 
cally round  the  outer  one,  collecting  the  odds  and 
ends  of  Indian  fabrics  with  which  she  had  gar- 
nished it. 

As  the  maid  came  in,  she  looked  up  from  fold- 
ing them. 

"  I  have  news,  Brookes,"  she  said,  "  that 
necessitates  my  going  home  at  once.  No,  it  is  not 
bad  news,  but — important.  I  will  go  now  and  see 
312 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

about  the  tonga.    We  must  start  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

Brookes  called  Surnoo,  and  the  rickshaw  came 
round. 

Madeline  looked  at  her  watch. 

"The  telegraph  office,"  she  said;  "and  as 
quickly  as  may  bo." 

As  the  runners  panted  over  the  ilall,  up  and 
down  and  on,  Madeline  said  to  herself,  '•  She  shall 
have  her  chance.    She  shall  choose." 

The  four  reeking  Pahuris  pulled  up  at  the  tele- 
graph office,  and  Madeline  sped  up  the  steps. 
Ihere  was  a  table,  with  forms  printed  "  Indian 
Telegraphs,"  and  the  usual  bottle  of  thickened  ink 
and  pair  of  rusty  pens.  She  sat  down  to  her  in- 
tention as  if  she  dared  not  let  it  cool;  she  wrote  her 
message  swiftly,  she  had  worded  it  on  the  way. 

'To  Mrs.  Inxes, 

Dak  Bungalow,         From  M.  Anderson, 

„x.     .  ^'''°"'  Simla. 

Frederick  Prendergast  died  on  January  7th, 
at  Sing  Sing.  Your  letter  considered  confidential 
if  you  return.     Prendergast  left  no  will. 

"  M.  Anderson." 

"  Send  this  '  urgent,'  Babu,"  she  said  to  the 
clerk,  "  and  repeat  it  to  the  railway  station,  Kalka. 
Shall  I  fill  up  another  form.'    No?    Very  well." 
313 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

At  the  door  she  turned  and  came  back. 

"It  is  now  eleven  o'clock,"  she  said.  "The 
person  I  am  telegraphing  to  is  on  her  wa>  down  to 
get  to-night's  train  at  Kalka.  I  am  hoping  to 
catch  her  half-way   at  Solon.     Do  you  think  I 

cvn?" 

"  I  think  so,  madam.  Oycss!  It  is  the  custom 
to  stop  at  Solon  for  tiffin.  The  telegram  can  arrive 
there.     All  urgent  telegram  going  very  quick." 

"  And  in  any  case,"  said  lladelinc,  "  it  can  not 
fail  to  reach  her  at  Kalka?  " 

"  Not  possible  to  fail,  madam." 

"  She  will  have  her  chance,"  she  said  to  herself, 
on  her  way  to  the  post-office  to  order  her  tonga. 
And  with  a  little  nauseated  shudder  at  the  thought 
of  the  letter  in  her  pocket,  she  added,  •'  It  is  amaz- 
ing. I  should  have  thought  her  too  good  a  wom- 
an of  business!"  After  which  she  concentrated 
her  wliolu  attention  upon  the  necessities  of  depar- 
ture. Her  single  immeiliate  apprehension  was  that 
Horace  Innes  might,  by  some  magic  of  circum- 
stances, be  transported  back  into  Simla  before  she 
could  get  out  of  it.  That  such  a  contingency  was 
physically  impossible  made  no  difference  to  her 
nerves,  and  to  the  last  Brookes  was  the  hurrying 
victim  of  unnecessary  promptings. 

The  little  rambling  hotel  of  Kalka,  where  the 
railway   spreads    out   over   the    plains,   raises   its 
314 


fTft'l: 


f  tML  >.♦ 


THE  HESITATION  OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

»hite-v. ashed  shelter  under  the  very  walls  of  the 
Himalayas.     Madeline,  just  arrived,  lay  back  in 
a  long  wicker  chair  on  th..   veranda,  and    l.)okcd 
up  at  them  as  they  mounccd  green  and  gray  and 
silent  under  the  beating  of  th<   first  of  the  rains. 
Everywhere  was  a  luxury  of  silence,  the  place  was 
steeped    in    it,    drowned    in    it.      A    feeding    cow 
flicked  an  automatic  tail  under  a  tree.     Near  the 
low  mud  wall  that  strolled  irresolutely  between  the 
iiouse  and  the  hills  leaned  a  bush  with  a  few  single 
pink  roses;  their  petals  were  floating  down  under 
the  battering  drops.    A  draggl.  d  Lee  tried  to  climb 
to  a  dry  place  on  a  pillar  of  the  veranda.     Abo,e 
all,  the  hills,  immediate,  towering,  all  gray  and 
green,    solidly    ideal,    with    phantasiec    of    mist. 
Everything  drippingly  soft  and  silent.     Suddenly 
tlie  Venetian  blind  that  hung  before  the  door  of  a 
bedroom    farther    on    swayed    out    before   a    hand 
variously  ringed  to  emit  a  lady  in  a  pink  lawn  dress 
with  apt  embroideries.     Madeline's  half-closed  eyes 
opened  very  wide,  and  for  an  instant  she  and  the 
lady,  to  whom  I  must  once  more  refer  as  Mrs. 
limes,  confronted  each  other.     Then  Jlrs.  Innes's 
countenance  expanded,  and  she  took  :hree  or  four 
light  steps  forward. 

"Oh,  you  dear  thing!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
thought  you  were  in  Simla!  Imagine  you  being 
here!    Do  you  know  you  have  saved  me!  ' 

Madeline  regarded  her  in  silence,  -r'  ile  a  pallor 
21  315 


i 


THE  HESITATION  OF  IMISS  ANDERSON 

spread  over  her  face  and  lips,  and  her  features 
grew  sharp  with  a  presage  of  pain. 

"Have  I?"  she  stammered.  She  could  not 
think. 

"  Indeed  you  have.  I  don't  know  how  to  be 
grateful  enough  to  you.  Your  telegram  of  yester- 
day reached  me  at  Solon.  We  had  just  sat  down 
to  tiffin.  Nothing  will  ever  shake  my  faitli  in 
Providence  again !  My  dear,  think  of  it — after  all 
I've  been  through,  my  darling  Val — and  one  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds ! " 
"Well?" 

"  Well— I  stayed  behind  there  last  night,  and 
Val  came  on  here  and  made  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments, and " 

"Yes?" 

"  And  we  were  married  this  morning.  Good 
heavens!  what's  the  matter  wiiii  you!  Here — oh, 
Brookes!     Water,  salts — anything!" 

Brookes,  I  know,  would  think  that  I  should 
dwell  at  greater  length  upon  Miss  Anderson's  at- 
tack of  faintness  in  Kalka,  and  the  various 
measures  which  were  resorted  to  for  her  succor, 
but  perhaps  the  feelings  and  expedients  of  any 
really  capable  lady's-maid  under  the  circum- 
stances may  be  taken  for  granted.  I  feel  more 
seriously  called  upon  to  explain  that  Colonel 
Horace  Inncs  shortly  after  these  last  events,  took 
two  years'  furlough  to  England,  during  which  he 
316 


mmrf 


THE   HESITATION  OK  MISS  ANDERSON 

made  a  very  interesting  tour  in  tlie  United  States 
with  the  lady  wlio  now  bears  liis  name  by  inalien- 
able right.     Captain  and  Mrs.   Valentine  Drake 
arc  getting  the  most  that  is  to  be  had  out  of  Fred- 
crick    Prendcrgnst's     fortune     witli     courage     in 
London   and  the  European  capitals,  where   Mrs. 
Drake  is  sometimes  mentioned  as  a  lady  with  a 
romantic  past.     They  have  not  returned  to  Simla, 
where  the  situation  has  never  been  properly  under- 
stood.     People   have   always    supposed   that    Mrs. 
Drake   ran    away   that    June    morning   with    her 
present  husband,  who  must  have  been  tremendously 
fond    of    her   to   have    married    her    "after    the 
divorce."     She  is  also  occasionally  mentioned  in 
undertones  as  "  the  first  Mrs.  Innes."    All  of  which 
we  know  to  be  quite  erroneous,  like  most  scandal. 

Mrs.   Mickie  and  Mrs.  Gammidgc,  in   retire- 
ment, are  superintending  the  education   of  their 
children  in  Bedford,  where  it  is  cheap  and  practical. 
They  converse  when  they  meet  about  the  iniquitous 
prices  of  dressmakers  and  the  degeneracy  of  the 
kind  of  cook  obtainable  in  England  at  eighteen 
pounds  a  year.     Mrs.  Gammidge  has  grown  rather 
portly  and  very  ritualistic.    They  seldom  speak  of 
Simla,  and  when  they  do,  if  too  reminiscent  a  spark 
appears   in   Mrs.    Mickie's    eye,   Mrs.   Gammidge 
changes   the   subject.      Kitty    Vesey    still    fills   her 
dance  cards  at  Viceregal  functions,  though  people 
do  not  quote  her  as  they  used  to,  and  subalterns 
317 


THE   HESITATION   OF  MISS  ANDERSON 

imagine  themselves  vastly  witty  about  her  color, 
which  is  unimpaired.  People  often  commend  her, 
however,  for  her  good  nature  to  dchutanteii,  and  it 
is  admitted  that  Siie  may  still  ride  with  credit  in 
"  affinity  stakes  " — and  occasionally  win  them. 


(1) 


318 


^ 

m 


By  FRANK   R.  STOCKTON. 
The  Captain's  Toll-Gate. 

A  Complete  Posthumous  Novel  by  Frank   R   Stock- 
ton,   Author   of    "Kate    Bonnet,"    '^'he    Lady   o     "e 
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Portrait,  V.ews  of   Mr.  Stockton's   Home,    a^d   a    Bibl.^ 
ography.     umo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  scene  is  p.irtly  laid  in  Washington  but  mainly  in 
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he   '  r'n  r"..°'  ^''   "'"      '"^'''^"•^  ""'"'"8  "1""" 
the      loll-Cale     and  a  fashionable  country  home  in   the 

neighborhood  are  related  with  the  author's  peculiar 
humor  and  charm  of  diction  which  have  endeared  him 
to  a  host  of  readers. 

The  heroine  who  is  an  embodiment  of  the  healthy 
vigorous  girl  of  to-day,  and  her  several  suitors,  together 
with  the  mistress  of  the  country  hous.  and  a  meddlesome 
unmarried  woman  of  the  village,  combine  to  present  a 
fascinatmg  and  varied  picture  of  social  life  to  the  present 

The  fertil.ty  of  invention  and  CnuUy        T^'Ll  a"  i^T ''"T' 
under  the  fir  ,rc"    or  when'wS'""''  ''""•      ■'*"'"«'"S  '"   >  ''""""^l' 


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The  Farringdons. 

"  'The  Farringdons'  is  a  serious  and  a  sound  piece  of  work,  and  there 
is  about  it  a  note  of  thoroughly  genuine  piety  which  is  very  far  from  being 
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Concerning  Isabel    Carnaby.     New  edition,  with   Por- 
trait and  Biographical    Sketch  of  the  Author. 

"  Rarely  does  one  find  such  a  charming  combination  of  wit  and  tender- 
ness of  brilliancy,  and  reverence  for  the  things  that  matter.  ...  It  is 
bright  without  being  flippant,  tender  without  being  mawkish,  and  as  joyous 
and  as  wholesome  as  sunshine  The  characters  are  closely  studied  and 
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